


Forget Me Not

by allyss



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Cultural Differences, Developing Relationship, Dorks in Love, Dwarf Culture & Customs, F/M, Falling In Love, Grief/Mourning, Jealousy, Marriage of Convenience, POV Female Character, Pining, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, minor references to depression and ptsd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25730230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyss/pseuds/allyss
Summary: It’s a marriage of convenience, a way to forever strengthen the bond between the Dwarvesof Erebor and the people of Dale.Or so Sigrid tells herself.(REUPLOAD)
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Fíli/Sigrid, Kíli/Tauriel
Comments: 46
Kudos: 120





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up - this is a re-upload, the original fic was deleted by AO3 because I linked my Ko Fi account and didn't receive the emails which supposedly told me to take the link down. My copy of the fic was lost due to my laptop dying a spectacular death, so MASSIVE thanks to eluvians for sending me a downloaded copy <3 <3 Couldn't have done this without you.
> 
> I want to go through the fic and fix some errors/pacing issues/scenes instead of just reuploading as I feel a lot more confident in my writing than I was when I originally started this fic back in 2015, so my aim is to put a chapter out every 3-7 days. I'm going through a bit of a hard time right now (but who isn't, am I right? 2020 is the worst) as my cat passed away last week and I'm starting back at school soon, so please don't hate me if I'm not always on time uploading.
> 
> Much love,  
> Allyss

Sigrid is no lady.

She was born a bargeman’s daughter. Whatever nobility may have lain in her blood has long since been filtered out.

She learned her letters from her father and good manners from her mother, but she grew up poor, with no need for writing and courtly etiquette. She has no knowledge of how to curtsey or how to speak to royalty in a way that won’t offend. She knows only how to be herself, Sigrid of Lake-town, not the high and mighty lady her people believe she has become.

She is the Dragonslayer’s daughter now, Lady of Dale, and future Princess of Erebor.

Her face screws up at the very thought.

There’s dirt under her fingernails and knots in her hair. Her clothes have holes in them and the scarf she’s wearing has seen better days. She knows nothing of the world; she knows only what little was taught in the schoolhouse and in her father’s bedtime stories. She is no better than anyone else, undeserving of the sudden respect and adoration that has been laid upon her. She is not a lady, no, nor will she ever make for much of a Princess.

But she must try, for her father’s sake.

So she sits still and tries not to fidget as Prince Fíli fixes a golden clasp into her hair.

The backs of his fingers brush against her cheek as he secures the golden clasp onto the end of a braid. She wants to recoil at his gentle, yet uncompromising touch. 

There is something very regal about him, something that makes her feel very small. She cannot describe it, but even in Laketown she had known there was something different about this Dwarf. There’s something in the shape of his nose, the way that he carries himself, and within the deep blue depths of his eyes that speaks of his station. 

She wonders what her own manner says about her, whether it is as clear to everyone else as it is to her that she does not belong here. 

To stave off the impending panic, she focuses her attention on Fíli’s beads, wondering what they mean. She might’ve asked, had she the courage. She sits silently instead, teeth gnawing at her lower lip nervously. She doesn’t know what she was thinking. She can’t go through with this. She needs air. She needs –

“Ahem.”

She blinks when she sees that Fíli is looking at her. It takes her a moment to realise what he’s waiting for her to do.

She takes the piece of hair that he had shown her, ignoring how her hand trembles, and braids it as neatly as she can. His hair is coarse, yet softer than she had expected. She plaits his hair as quickly as she is able; she doesn’t want to touch him for a second longer than she has to. 

When she finishes the braid, her gaze drops to the gold bead resting on her lap. She fastens the bead onto the end of his hair and retracts her hands, letting them fall to her lap.

King Thorin, from where he looms on the dais before them, utters something deep and guttural in the bizarre language of Dwarves. The small crowd behind them cheers and stomps their iron booted feet in what she hopes is approval. 

She resists the urge to wring her hands together, as she does when she’s nervous, by glancing at her father. His expression is difficult to read, as weary as ever but with a hint of pride in the slight curl of his lips. A small part of her hopes he knows that she is doing this for him.

Prince Fíli places her hand over his and together, they stand. His calloused fingers grate against her much softer ones. 

The King says more in that strange language, speaking words she doesn’t understand. No one makes any effort to translate. She can surmise well enough, however. This ceremony is to announce their betrothal and the beads, she supposes, are a means to demonstrate that they are now spoken for. A mark of ownership, so to speak. She doesn’t understand Dwarves and no one ever thought to explain to her their ways, but she understands the gesture well enough. 

_You are mine now_ , the golden clasp in her hair tells her and anyone else who might care enough to look, _no one else’s._

It feels far heavier in her hair than it ought to.

Sigrid and Prince Fíli turn to face the crowd, her hand still sitting on top of his. The small crowd, primarily made up of the members of the King’s Company, who had once sought shelter in her home, and the King’s advisors, bow respectfully before erupting in cheers. An invitation to attend - as far as she is aware - was not made to any of her people. Her father, they, at the very, _very_ least, begrudgingly allowed. 

Her hands are still trembling when they step down from the raised dais. Then the music begins, marking the end of the ceremony.

“My lady,” Prince Fíli says and raises her hand to his lips.

She nods her head at him – it is the best she can manage – and he takes his leave of her. 

The Prince is swept up by a crowd of overexcited Dwarves, who clap him on the back and drag him off to drink. He does not look back at her. She watches them go, wringing her hands together. He looks almost in good spirits, her husband-to-be. She supposes he has every reason to be. The Dwarves are getting everything they wanted, after all. 

A few Dwarves smile at her politely as she passes, though the rest either grunt or ignore her, as she makes her way through the crowd. She tries not to make it too obvious how frantically she is hurrying back to her father’s side. 

Bard draws her into his arms at once and she leans into him, breathing a little easier.

Nothing can be so terrible, after all, when she has her father there to protect her.

“You did well, love,” Bard says, his hold on her tightening a fraction. Sigrid laughs once, without humour, but does not respond. She doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m afraid the Dwarves have insisted that you will stay here for the rest of the festivities,” her father tells her. He draws away when she tenses and he lifts his hands to gently cup her cheeks. “Don’t worry, I’m not leaving you here on your own. I’ll stay with you. I don’t care if the Dwarves don’t like it.”

She tries not to worry, to reassure herself that all will be well, but it’s not as easy as it seems. It all feels like some strange, convoluted joke. She is certain that they’re laughing at her, that she knows exactly what they’re thinking when they look at her. She might be a Lady in name now, but she still lives in rubble, in a graveyard haunted by the many hundreds of dead. Her home on the Long Lake is little more than ash and ruin.

She has no place here, amongst Kings and Princes and rich treasures.

The Dwarves around them are feasting and throwing back drinks. Celebrating. Their joyous mood does little to lift hers.

She spies Prince Fíli with his brother, drinking from a flagon as big as his forearm. The light catches on the gold of his bead and she quickly looks away.

“Are you hungry? The Dwarves seem to have enough food to feed an army.” Bard points out and though she hasn’t eaten for several hours, not since breakfast, she shakes her head. She doesn’t think she could stomach it.

“Do you think they’ll mind awfully if I go to bed? I don’t… I don’t feel so well.” She says and her father wraps a protective arm around her shoulders. 

“If you want to leave just say the word, darling,” Bard says and Sigrid smiles faintly, grateful. 

Her father catches the attention of the Halfling, Master Baggins, and waves him over. He’s a funny sort of creature that Halfling; very small, with hairy feet – but kind, and unfailingly polite. He’s the only one of them who she hadn’t immediately disliked upon meeting. 

Master Baggins walks over to them with a bright smile, hands tucked into the pockets of his green trousers.

“My daughter isn’t feeling well.” Her father tells him. “Give her apologies to the King, will you?”

“Oh, of course.” Master Baggins replies. He glances up at her and smiles goodnaturedly. “I hope you feel better in the morning, Lady Sigrid.”

“Thank you.” Sigrid manages to say without grimacing. “Goodnight, Master Baggins.”

She pretends not to notice the look Prince Fíli sends her way when he sees that she’s leaving.

Let him, and all the others, celebrate their victory over the pride of the people of Laketown, but she certainly will not. 

With his arm curled firmly around her shoulders, her father escorts her from the grand hall. They walk in silence through the winding passageways that lead to their private quarters, the echoes of shouting and singing following them. The way is lit by lanterns which seem to glow unnaturally bright.

Bard leaves her only after she promises that she’ll be alright and that she’ll go to him if she feels unwell in the night. Her father bids her goodnight and she steps into her quarters, hugging her elbows. She feels colder, bereft without his comforting presence. 

This is the first time she has stepped in what she supposes will be her private quarters. There are several rooms with high ceilings and spider-like threads of gold and silver running through the walls. No windows. 

The first room she comes across appears to be a study and the other she suspects is a receiving room, with uncomfortable looking armchairs and a settee. Lastly, she comes upon the bedroom. She’s shared a bed with Tilda ever since her sister outgrew her cot. She doesn’t know the feeling of sleeping alone.

Her hands are still shaking when she slides out of her dress and sheds her scarf and jacket. She steps out of her boots and climbs into the bed in her smallclothes. The bed is warm - a servant must have put a pan under the mattress - and the sheets are soft against her bare skin, but it doesn’t bring much comfort to her.

She lies awake for a long time, uncomfortable in a strange bed. It’s so quiet, the only sound she can hear is her own breathing. There’s no one kicking her in her sleep, no sharp elbows digging into her side. No Tilda. The heat from the hearth keeps the room comfortably warm and under the thick layer of blankets, she eventually finds her eyelids growing heavier.

She dreams of home.

~*~

She is woken just after dawn when a Dwarf she has never met before throws open her bedroom door.

“I am Dara, of the Iron Hills.” The Dwarf announces calmly, as though they had not just burst in unannounced and startled someone awake. “At your service.”

Sigrid clutches her blankets to her chest, her heart in her throat. 

“What do you - what -?”

Her eyebrows leap to her hairline when the Dwarf bows before her. The Dwarf, who is wearing a dark green gown and has softer features than most Dwarves beneath a thick brown beard, appears to be female. It’s a shock, she had half-believed there weren’t any female Dwarves. 

When she sits up and drags her covers up to her chin, the Dwarf blinks and seems to realise that she’s marched into a stranger’s bedroom uninvited.

“Forgive me for the intrusion, my lady, but I have been sent by Lord Balin to prepare you for the day.”

“Prepare me?” She asks warily, not certain whether she is really having this conversation at all. She isn’t convinced she’s not still dreaming. “For what?”

“Come,” Dara says. “First, you must bathe.”

Dara holds out her hand and she stares at it for a moment, unmoving. She’s almost tempted to refuse. Had she been at home, in Laketown, or even in Dale, and a stranger burst into her rooms, she would not even be entertaining the thought. She’d be screaming bloody murder. But this isn’t her home. She’s a guest here in the mountain, and subject to the Dwarves’ whims and sanctions. She must never forget that. 

“We don’t have all day, my lady.” Dara tuts with disapproval. 

Sigrid is tempted to scowl but decides against it. She doubts that would go over well with this minion of Lord Balin.

The bed is warm and comfortable, she has no desire to leave it. But when she looks at Dara, she gets the feeling the Dwarf is not to be trifled with. So she slides her legs out from beneath the covers and stands, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The Dwarf frowns at the state of her hair but makes no comment about it.

There are two sets of double doors in her bedroom, one she knows leads to her receiving room, and the other, she discovers, opens up to a small bathroom that contains a bath, two sinks, and a privy. A bath has already been prepared for her - the hot water seemingly coming straight from the pipes, as impossible as it may seem to her. 

Dara looks at her pointedly, before gesturing impatiently for her to undress. Sigrid hesitates, flushing at the thought of stripping down in front of someone she doesn’t know. The Dwarf stares back at her, seemingly oblivious, with one heavy brow lifted. Sigrid shifts uncomfortably, crossing her arms in front of her chest, conscious of how thin her shift is.

“Please could you turn around?” She finds herself having to ask, her voice wavering, when the Dwarf does not take a hint.

When the Dwarf does as she is bid, Sigrid quickly sheds her underclothes and climbs into the hot water. She draws her knees to her chest, her flush deepening when the Dwarf woman kneels at her side with an armful of soaps and oils.

“I can wash myself,” she protests. “Please. I’m not a child.”

The Dwarf tuts in disapproval and fills a jug with the warm bathwater. Without much warning, she pours the water over her, wetting her long hair. Sigrid splutters.

“You’re not some peasant girl,” Dara chides as she scrubs soap through her hair. “You’re a lady. And one day soon you’ll be Princess of Erebor. It is why I am here, why Lord Balin sent for me. There are a great many things you must learn, that I must prepare you for. I have served many ladies in my time, though never a child of Men.”

The Dwarf drags a comb through her hair roughly, clucking her tongue when she winces.

“Dwarves take great pride in their hair. You must do the same.”

The unspoken gibe grates at her.

 _I’m not a Dwarf_ , she’s tempted to remind the other woman. No matter who she marries.

When the Dwarf finds the golden clasp in her hair, she doesn’t remove it, but admires it with a breathy sigh.

“Ah, isn’t that lovely?” She says and leaves it and the braid it holds together alone.

Sigrid chooses not to respond, not certain she won’t say something unkind.

The Dwarf sets aside her comb and picks up a vial of purple oil, which she pours into her hands and rubs through her hair. It smells strongly of something she cannot put a name to. The pleasant, yet unfamiliar smell lingers even after she washes it away.

Dara hands her a square block of soap. “Wash yourself while I have your clothes sent up.”

“Clothes?” She frowns. “What clothes?”

“I was not given much time. A fortnight is hardly enough time to prepare, but I did my best.” The Dwarf huffs. “As you are the Prince’s intended, you must dress accordingly. The dresses I had made should suffice for now. I’ve made arrangements with the royal dressmakers to visit at the earliest convenience.”

Sigrid isn’t sure she understands, but is relieved when the Dwarf gets up and walks into the other room, closing the door behind her. She wants to sink back into the water and block out the rest of the world. She doubts Dara of the Iron Hills would allow that though. 

Wary of the Dwarf bursting back into the room, she washes herself quickly, her pale skin pink from the warmth of the water. She picks away the dirt from underneath her nails and washes her face, grimacing when some soap gets in her eyes.

She draws her knees back to her chest and sinks lower into the water when she hears footsteps approaching. The Dwarf doesn’t knock but does open the door a touch slower than before, which Sigrid appreciates. Dara hands her a towel when she returns and turns away without being prompted. Sigrid climbs out of the bath and wraps the towel around herself.

She dries herself and follows the Dwarf back into her bedroom, where, sure enough, new dresses have been laid out on the bed. She doesn’t know enough about fashion to have much of an opinion, though the colours on display are quite pretty. She isn’t sure what to say, she can only do as she is directed. 

Dara hands her a shift, which she obediently pulls on over her head, and sets her towel aside. She is handed dark grey, wool stockings, similar to her own, and Dara ties a pretty ribbon around each leg to hold them up. It doesn’t seem particularly practical in her eyes, but she doesn’t comment. Next comes the corset, a wretched thing she has never once wished to try for herself. Though Dara does not tie the strings as tightly as she could have.

When it comes, at last, to the dress, Sigrid sighs. Though she cannot claim to have much knowledge of such things, even she can see that the dress is very fine. It is a far cry from what she is used to, too fine for the likes of her. It resembles some of the pretty gowns she’d seen on display at the dressmaker’s in Lake-town, the sort she and the other girls had looked at and sighed over. The deep blue, almost violet, colour is lovely, far lovelier than any of the fabrics she’d made her own clothes out of back home. It fits well, though a little tight around the middle, and makes her wonder how the Dwarf had known her measurements.

Dara, at least, seems happy with her work when she steps back, clasping her hands together.

“Your jewels have yet to be released from the treasury, but I did take it upon myself to pick up a few pieces for you to wear in the interim.” The Dwarf tells her, much to her horror. 

Before she can protest, Sigrid is ushered over to the vanity table. On the vanity, displayed just as they might be in a shop window, sits an array of necklaces. The sight of so much gold and gleaming jewels makes her pause. 

“I couldn’t -” She stammers out. “The expense -”

Dara doesn’t seem to take any notice. The Dwarf bustles past her, picking up a thick gold chain from the collection.

“I think this will pair quite nicely.” The Dwarf says before she puts it on her.

The necklace is heavy. Uncomfortably so. She suddenly thinks she knows how cart horses feel.

“Dara, I don’t -”

“Now, your hair.” The Dwarf sighs, ignoring her protests entirely. “You can’t be walking around with it looking like that! What would people think?”

“I don’t know.” She mutters as she sits on the edge of her bed. “What would they think?”

The Dwarf plaits her damp hair in a series of complicated braids that gather at the nape of her neck, leaving the small braid Fíli had made loose, hanging by the side of her face for all to see. She touches the golden clasp that now hangs just below her jaw, seeing it up close for the first time. It’s more detailed than she had initially thought, with little symbols and shapes etched into the sides. When Dara catches her looking at it, she smiles.

“They’re runes.” She explains.

“What do they say?” She asks, but the Dwarf shakes her head.

“Not for me to say. You ask your Prince that, I’m sure he’ll be happy to tell you, once you are wed.”

Sigrid lets go of the clasp, grimacing. She doesn’t need to be told. She can guess what the runes say.

~*~

Dara’s role in her daily activities makes itself abundantly clear throughout the day. 

They eat breakfast together in her sitting room, where the Dwarf tells her what is expected of her once she is married to the Prince. 

From the moment they are married, she will belong to the kingdom of Erebor. She will sign away her freedom, her future, her very sense of being. She won’t be allowed to visit Dale without an escort. She can’t stay in her father’s home for more than a night without the knowledge and permission of the King. She is expected to be present whenever a noble or a foreign dignitary arrives. She is expected to dress and behave in the manner of Dwarves. Any children she and the Prince may have will be raised as Dwarves.

Just the thought of children is enough to put her off her breakfast. 

“Once you are wed, you must leave your old life behind. You will no longer be Lady Sigrid of Dale. You will be a Princess of Erebor and that must always come first. The Dwarves of Erebor are to be your people. The Prince’s kin are to be your family. Your loyalties can never be questioned. Do you understand?”

She sets down her knife and fork and puts her head in her hands.

It isn’t fair. None of it.

She squeezes her eyes closed. She thinks she’s going to be sick.

She had thought she had known what she was signing up for. She had known she would be expected to live in this cursed, wretched place, surrounded by strangers who would always see her as an outsider, but she never would have thought they would try to keep her from her family and Dale.

“Elbows off. Ladies never put their elbows on the table.” Dara scolds, though pats her shoulder consolingly.

“I’ve no notion of being a lady,” she despairs.

“You will learn,” Dara says, as if it’s that simple.

“Why?” She demands, feeling very much out of her depth. “Why should I have to? I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t want -”

There’s a knock at the door and Dara gives her shoulder a squeeze before she goes to answer it. Sigrid lifts her head from her hands and looks over her shoulder, sighing in relief at the sight of her father. She stands and quickly hurries across the room.

“Da.” She murmurs weakly, leaning her forehead against Bard’s shoulder. One of her father’s hands curls around the nape of her neck, holding her close.

 _Help me,_ she wants to beg. _Don’t let me do this._ And she knows he would. Her father would burn all bridges with the Dwarves if she asked it of him. Which is why she can’t, why she must hold her tongue.

“Are you feeling better, love?” Her father asks, and though she resolutely wishes to say _no, absolutely not,_ she nods and forces herself to smile.

“I am Dara of the Iron Hills. I am to be Lady Sigrid’s lady-in-waiting.” Dara explains to her father. The two exchange pleasantries for a moment while Sigrid stands awkwardly to one side, biting her nails. She doesn’t know what a lady-in-waiting is. She isn’t sure she wants to know.

“Sigrid?”

She blinks at the sound of her name. She looks up and finds both Bard and Dara staring at her.

“Yes?” She says, lowering her hand from her mouth. 

“Prince Fíli has offered to give you a tour,” Dara says with a gleeful expression.

What faint smile she had managed to muster up for her father dims as she looks over Dara’s shoulder and sees the Prince. Had he been standing there this whole time?

“Your father and I will accompany you, of course. As chaperones.” Dara adds, and she cannot help but sigh in relief. 

“Lady Sigrid,” Fíli says, bowing his head respectfully.

“Prince Fíli.” She replies, awkwardly dipping in her best attempt at a curtsy.

The Prince holds out his arm and she takes it after a moment, that uncomfortable feeling returning to the pit of her stomach. 

Dara and her father fall in step behind them, walking at a respectable distance. This, she supposes, is considered their courtship. Several brief moments alone, constantly under supervision, until they are wed. And then her life as she knows it will change drastically once again. 

She has to press her lips together to stop herself from sighing. She is doing this for her family and for her people, she forces herself to remember. For them, she will make this work.

The silence stretches on, growing uncomfortable. She’s never been very good at small talk. Especially not with people she does not know.

“How is Prince Kíli?” She asks, deeming it a relatively safe topic of conversation. 

“He is doing well.” Fíli smiles slightly, looking ahead. “He mourns the absence of a certain Elf, however.”

Sigrid hums. “Do you know when Tauriel will return?”

“It’s difficult to tell.” He answers. “The last I heard, she was helping clear the last of the spiders from Mirkwood as a favour to King Thranduil. Though, considering it was he who banished her, I’m still not sure why she is doing him any favours…”

In spite of herself and the panic still swirling inside her, a small smile tugs at the corners of her lips.

She thinks the prospect of living within the mountain wouldn’t be so terrible if Tauriel were to return. Even in the short amount of time they were acquainted, she had grown fond of the Elf who had saved her and her sister from the horrors of dragon fire.

“Dwarves are arriving from the Blue Mountains and the Iron Hills every day,” Fíli tells her as they descend polished granite stairs. She nods whenever he looks her way, feigning interest. “The restoration of the main gate is almost complete and the mines will soon be reopened.” 

She looks around her, realising that they’re in the entrance hall. In only a year, the Dwarves have cleared away almost every trace of the dragon. The first time she had stepped foot in this place, she had thought it like a tomb.

“As you can see, there is still much work to be done. It will take time, but I believe the mountain will one day return to what it once was.” He glances over his shoulder at her father. “As will Dale and Esgaroth.”

She feels a familiar ache at the mention of her home and ducks her head to hide her expression. There would be no restoring Lake-town, not when what was left of the dragon lay on top of it. Fíli leads them through the entrance hall and to what he refers to as the Gallery of the Kings.

“My uncle and the others tried to kill the dragon here,” he explains. “Tried to kill it with gold.”

Sigrid side-eyes him, wondering if he is having her on. His perfectly serious expression only confuses her further. 

“I suppose... there’s a sort of irony in that.” She mutters, earning a slight smirk from the Prince.

The sight of the golden floor makes her uncomfortable. The massive sea of shining gold reminds her of all the stories her father told her about the mountain and the cursed treasures that lay within. Madness lay there, her father always warned. 

She looks back at him and sees that his expression mirrors her own.

There are those who fear that the King’s dragon sickness will return and that it will infect all that step foot in the mountain. She cannot fault them for their fear. But it is because of those people that she finds herself here. Even after the arrangement was met and the promised gold was given to her people, there were still those who doubt. They need something stronger, something they can rely on. She can only hope that she will be enough and that her marriage will set the hearts of her people at ease. They have lived in fear for too long.

As Fíli leads them across the golden floor and across a walkway, she realises just how large the kingdom really is. It makes her feel very small, looking at the great carvings of kings that tower over them. It strikes her as odd that there may come a day when she calls this place home.

But she doubts that will ever happen.

She sneaks a glance at Fíli and notices the braid she put in his hair is still in place. It is untidy and crooked compared with his other braids.

“You can take that out if you like.” She says, looking pointedly at the braid.

“Why would I do that?” He frowns.

Behind them, she hears Dara make a choked sort of sound. She looks back and sees her father patting the Dwarf on the back, in spite of her grumbled protests. 

“By removing it, it would renounce our engagement.”

She blinks.

“Is that… is that what you wish?”

She’s almost tempted to say yes.

“Of course not.” She insists instead, lying through her teeth. “It’s just… I did it so poorly, I wouldn’t want you to be embarrassed.”

“No, it will stay as it is.” Fíli says as he frowns down at the floor.

There is a moment of awkwardness, and she wonders if she has offended him.

They are saved from any further awkwardness by the arrival of his brother. Kíli bounds towards them, looking marginally better than the last time she’d seen him. It’s something of a miracle that the two princes and their uncle survived the battle. All three of them sustained injuries that should have killed them. 

Kíli grins brightly at them as he approaches.

“There you are!” The darker haired prince exclaims. “Mr. Boggins is making pies.”

Kíli’s gaze flickers between the two of them. “What are you two doing here, anyway?”

“I was giving them a tour.” Fíli answers, looking back at her with a small, but hesitant smile. “What would you like to see next, my lady? The treasury? The council chambers? Or... perhaps you’d like to end the tour early, and see what Bilbo’s making?”

From the look on his face, she knows exactly which option he’d prefer.

“I think I’ve seen enough for one day,” she says.

This is the most they’ve ever talked, she realises. The Dwarf who had taken shelter in her home hadn’t spoken to her much. His concern had been solely for his brother, but he had saved her life.

She remembers it like it was yesterday. An Orc had burst through the door, swinging a long, jagged blade at her. She had been knocked back hard by the creature's arm, sending her stumbling back onto the dining table bench, and she’d looked up, watching with wide eyes as the creature raised its sword over her. She’d been so certain she was going to die, but then Fíli had surged forwards, barrelling into the orc. He hadn’t even had a weapon.

It is with that memory in mind that she looks at Fíli, thinking that, maybe, being married to him won’t be so terrible.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long wait for this chapter. The last month and a bit have been crazy stressful and I haven't found much time to write. There aren't too many changes to this chapter from the original, mostly just dialogue changes and Sigrid's reactions to things. I hope you guys enjoy it though <3 If any readers from the original fic have any requests for something they'd like added to the story, please let me know. I do want to add more scenes so do let me know if you have anything you'd like to see.

The graveyard was the first thing they built in the new city of Dale. 

In the beginning, it was little more than a field atop a hill, piled with stones.

The memorial had followed in the months after the battle. A large slab of rock was given to them by the Dwarves, and onto it they etched the names of their dead. They couldn’t bury all the bodies. For some families, a name among so many on that rock was all they had.

Sigrid traces the names of people she’d once known while Tilda sets down a bundle of flowers. The names number amongst the hundred. 

Over a year has passed but the memories are still fresh in her mind. 

Their lives had never been easy, but they had some semblance of peace. The dragon hadn’t been seen for generations. But all that had changed in a matter of moments, changing all their lives irrevocably. She will never be the person she was before the dragon came. She’ll never get that semblance of peace back.

But in that, she knows she is not alone. 

He tries to hide it, tries to be strong and brave like their father, but there hasn’t been a night since the dragon destroyed their home that her brother hasn’t had nightmares. She can hear him in the middle of the night, crying out in his sleep. She wants to go to him, to comfort him, but she doesn’t know how. She can’t tell her brother the monsters aren’t real anymore. They might not be hiding under his bed, but they both know they are real.

Sigrid wipes her cheeks, her gloved fingers coming away wet with tears.

“Are you ready to go?” She asks, and Tilda nods. 

They walk hand in hand down from the hill, back to the city. They don’t speak.

Winter has almost passed; she can see the first signs of spring. The grass has started to grow on the blood-soaked earth between the ruins of Dale and the Lonely Mountain and the trees have started to come back to life. With every light of a new dawn, birds sing.

Some say that the ice will melt and the river will soon flow past Ravenhill again, where the King and his nephews had almost lost their lives. She remembers the first time the ice had broken, when the water had begun to fall, almost half a year after the battle. It had felt as though the waters rushing from Ravenhill might wash the lands clean once more.

The winter has been long and they have suffered through so much turmoil, but it feels as if new life has finally been breathed back into this place. They have a chance now, a chance to start again. 

They walk through the old marketplace, people nodding in respect as they pass. 

The markets are starting to open up. Workers are returning to their crafts. People are beginning to live again, without the heavy weight of sorrow pressing down on them. The first generation of children of new Dale are being brought into the world. 

The gold given to them by Master Baggins and the Dwarves has been put to good use. Her father rules fairly and with a kindness the Master of Lake-town had never possessed. There has been talk of making him King, if Hilda Bianca’s gossip is to be believed. King Bard the Dragonslayer. Sometimes Sigrid has to smile, wondering what her mother would’ve made of it all. 

She fiddles with the clasp in her hair as they walk past the market stalls, conscious of how noticeable it is. If Dara hadn’t made her painfully aware of what removing it would mean, she would have taken the golden bead out as soon as she had returned to Dale. 

As they walk through the marketplace, she feels as if everyone is looking at the gold in her hair, watching in disgust as she shows it off for all the world to see. Her people - who have only ever known desperation and hunger - won’t look upon the golden bead and smile the same way Dara does. And she doesn’t blame them. 

But they don’t see it for what it is. A mark of ownership she never asked for - gifted to her by the Dwarves in the same way her father had been given iron shackles by the Master time and time again. 

Sigrid ducks her head and quickens her pace, towing Tilda along with her.

“I’m tired of soup.” Tilda says, and looks up at her with big, pleading eyes. “Can we have something special for supper?” 

“Tilda, you’ve only just had your breakfast.” She reminds her.

“I  _ know _ , but I thought we could buy something, while we’re here.” 

She pauses, looking at the small, makeshift stalls that have been set up around them. She has a small purse of gold hanging at her hip, something which her father had pressed into her hand that morning in spite of her protests. 

During the celebration of her engagement to Prince Fíli, there had been several feasts, during which she’d seen more food in one night than she had in her whole life. Tilda and Bain had missed out on that, she realises with a twinge of guilt. The Dwarves hadn’t extended the invitation to her brother and sister.

She buys some fish, caught fresh from the Long Lake that morning, and an assortment of vegetables, making no effort to haggle the prices down, as she once would have done. The instinct to wince when handing over a large portion of gold coins is still there, too ingrained in her from a lifetime of barely having enough to scrape by. 

Tilda hums happily on the way back to their house, pleased with herself. 

In the past few months, they have taken up residence in the house next door to the Great Hall, which had once been the home of her ancestor, Lord Gideon. It had seemed fitting, even if the grandeur of the stately house - which had survived the worst of the dragon fire and subsequent years of decay - makes her a little uneasy.

But anything is better than living in the Great Hall.

She remembers the many long weeks after the battle that they took refuge in the hall, huddling together for warmth when the heavy snows came. 

In the last few months, the Great Hall has been renovated and no longer resembles the run-down ruin it once was. The wood and stone have been stripped and replaced, the walls rebuilt stronger and thicker, and the roof reinforced. It will be good to have a place where they know they will be safe and secure from whatever nature throws their way. They are not like the Dwarves, who have their mountain and great forges to protect them, but they will have a proper roof over their head and thick walls to keep in the heat. They can ask for no more than that. 

Sigrid and Tilda walk up the steps, blackened, like everything else, by dragon fire, and push open the heavy wooden doors. 

It isn’t home, but the house is warm and welcoming. 

After she hangs up her coat, Tilda lets go of her hand and skips up the stairs to the bedroom they share. It’s a lifelong habit neither of them have been able to shake, nor care much to. 

Bain is nowhere to be found, she notes after a quick search, and neither is her father. She can hear Tilda upstairs, the sound of her little sister’s surprisingly heavy footsteps and the creak of floorboards, as she walks through into the kitchen and sets the fish and vegetables down. 

It’s much too early for her to get a start on dinner, but her mind is too busy for her to be idle. 

With a small sigh, Sigrid walks through the house in search of something to do to distract her from her thoughts. She steps out of the back door, into the small garden. The garden had been a surprise, a novelty. They have never had a garden before, save a few potted plants dotted around their little home on the lake. 

The garden is a large open space, larger than their home in Laketown had been. The plants are all dead and the grass has yet to regrow, but the vines that grow along the stone walls are beginning to flower and spread. 

Life is creeping back, little by little. 

She reminds herself to ask Mr. Baggins about it the next time she sees him, as Hobbits are meant to be experts on all things that grow. 

She tries to imagine them, as a family, sitting in the sunlight, enjoying their first real garden. She closes her eyes and tries to imagine Tilda with a crown of daisies in her hair, grinning toothily. She tries to imagine Bard lying in the grass, eyes closed, without the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders for the first time in so many years.

She wonders what this same place looked like when Lord Gideon and his family lived there.

She tries to imagine it, but she doesn’t know what a beautiful garden looks like.

“Lady Sigrid?” 

Her name is spoken softly, yet it startles her all the same. She whirls around and blinks in surprise at the sight of Prince Fíli. 

The Dwarf, hovering awkwardly in the doorway, with a battle-ax hanging by his hip, couldn’t have looked more out of place if he tried. For a long moment, she can only gape at him. The Dwarf’s sudden appearance - not just in Dale, but in her house - has her caught very much off guard.

“Forgive me,” he says as he steps out into the garden. His boots hit the cobblestone path with a heavy thud. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

Sigrid forces her mouth to close. 

“It’s alright.” She breathes, her voice, somehow, is surprisingly steady. “What do you -? My father isn’t here –” 

“Actually - uh - it’s not your father I came to see.” Prince Fíli tells her and takes a small step towards her. His eyes shift, not quite meeting hers. “I’ve been looking for you.” 

Sigrid bristles. “Dara said I could come here. She said King Thorin allowed it.”

“No - of course, that’s - that’s fine.” The Dwarf curses under his breath. “Look, I -” 

She frowns when he pulls a thin rectangular box out of his pocket and holds out to her.

“I wanted to give you this.” 

Sigrid hesitates before she takes it from him. 

She stares down at the little wooden box, noticing the strange markings that are carved into it. She traces the shapes of the markings, wondering if they’re runes. She thinks they might bear some similarity to the runes etched into the gold bead in her hair. She opens her mouth to ask him what they mean, but changes her mind when she sees him watching her expectantly. 

He’s waiting for her to open it, she realises. 

Feeling a little embarrassed under the intensity of his gaze, she ducks her head. She wishes he wouldn’t look at her like that. 

Conscious of his watchful gaze, she lifts the lid off carefully. Inside is the most beautiful necklace she has ever seen. A large, round diamond the size of a chicken’s egg hangs off of a delicate, sparkling silver chain. She draws it closer, eyes wide in wonder. The stone catches the light curiously, making it shine and sparkle. 

She didn’t know diamonds could be so large, or sparkle so brightly. 

The Master had liked diamonds. She remembers seeing one of his mistresses through the dressmaker’s window once. She had seemed so glamorous, like a princess from one of Tilda’s stories. Her dark hair had been gathered at the nape of her neck in a jeweled net and gold chains had hung from her long, elegant neck. Sigrid had pressed her hands to the glass and stared, wishing she might one day grow up to be like that woman, until the dressmaker had chased her away.

She stares down at the necklace, far grander than anything one of the Master’s mistresses might have worn, and doesn’t feel the way she would have imagined. She doesn’t feel like that little girl in Laketown, wishing so fervently to be someone she wasn’t.

She stares down at the necklace and tries to imagine its worth. The figure she ends up with makes her feel ill. 

“I can’t accept this!” She exclaims and her hands fumble as she lets the necklace slip back the box. 

She pushes it back into Fíli’s hands with a little more force than necessary. The Dwarf stares at the box for a moment, brows drawn. With more care than she had shown, he turns the box over in his hands and slips the lid back on. After what feels like a very long, tense moment, he looks up at her with a look on his face she cannot decipher. 

“Thank you,” she says when she realises her actions must have come across as rude. The prince blinks up at her, looking bewildered. She falters, unsure what else to say. “I - thank you, but I can’t... It… it was kind of you to offer, though. I appreciate the thought.” 

Prince Fíli is quiet for a moment. She prays she hasn’t offended him terribly. 

“I see.” The Dwarf eventually says. “I will do better next time, I promise you.”

It takes a second for his words to sink in. 

“What?” Her eyes widen. “Oh, you don’t - that’s not necessary -”

But he just nods, as if he’s worked something out. 

Sigrid doesn’t know how to respond to that, so she doesn’t say anything. For a long moment, neither of them speaks. The Dwarf looks down at his feet and nudges a pebble with his heavy booted foot. Unsure what to do, she looks back at the garden, but cannot stop from sneaking the occasional glance at him. 

“Is… is that the only reason you came here?” She asks, praying he hasn’t come to take her back to the mountain. When he nods, his lips turned down a fraction, she cannot help but sigh in relief.

She isn’t ready to go back. 

The mountain is dark, claustrophobic. Every sound echoes around the thick walls and the lack of windows make her feel as though she’s living in a tomb. The strange people living there, speaking their strange tongue, looking at her with suspicion in their eyes, don’t do much to help matters either.

She doesn’t know what to say. She almost wishes she could have taken the necklace, to spare them from any awkwardness. 

“Oh, well… would you – um - would you like to have dinner with us?” She asks, awkwardly wringing her hands. “As you came all the way from the mountain…”

“Thank you, but no. I’m expected back soon. We’re having a feast welcoming Lord Dáin back to Erebor tonight.” Fíli says, rubbing the back of his neck, not quite meeting her eye. 

She hears the words left unsaid. Dáin Ironfoot, the Lord of the Ironhills, has returned to Erebor for their wedding. She’s told that hundreds of Dwarves are expected to arrive for the ceremony - the Princes’ mother, Lady Dís included. The reminder of their looming wedding makes her feel sick.

“Truth be told, I’d rather not go, but it’s expected…” 

When he looks down and slips the box back into his coat pocket, she notices that her braid is still in his hair. 

It has been two months since their engagement was announced and he hasn’t touched it. It is just as crooked and messy as the last time she’d seen it. 

She hasn't seen him since he’d given her the brief tour of the mountain, the day after their engagement ceremony. She isn’t sure if he has been avoiding her or if she’d just gotten lucky. Dara - when not drilling Dwarven history and customs into her head - has been dragging her to fitting after fitting with the royal dressmakers. She’s seen other members of the King’s company around the mountain, but never her Dwarf husband-to-be.

She reaches out instinctively, chewing her lip in thought. Fíli’s eyebrows raise in surprise but he stays very still, his eyes fixed on her face as she runs her finger down the piece of hair. She doesn’t stop to think about what she’s doing, running on instinct alone.

“I could fix it, if you like.” She offers. “If that’s allowed.” 

The Dwarf doesn’t say anything, only nods once after a brief moment of hesitation.

Taking it as an invitation, she carefully pulls the golden bead from his hair. 

Not trusting her pockets to be without holes, she grabs his hand and presses the bead into his palm. She doesn’t notice the way Fíli’s fingers curl into his palm, wrapping securely around the golden bead. Nor does she notice that he closes his eyes as she undoes the braid, the tips of her fingers running carefully through his hair. 

She takes more care this time, her hands steadier. Unsurprisingly, her hands don’t shake quite as much when she isn’t kneeling on a hard stone floor, under the watchful gaze of a large gathering of Dwarves. She doesn’t try for anything too complicated, just a simple plait down the side of his face. 

She glances at his face, frowning slightly at the expression she finds. He looks uncomfortable; his eyes are closed, with a small furrow between his brows. He looks like he’s concentrating very hard, like he’s thinking a great deal about something. 

His eyes flash open when she gently urges him to open his fingers. She takes the bead from his hand and fixes it onto the bottom of the braid. She steps away, her cheeks warming when she suddenly notices how close they are standing together. 

“What do they mean?” She asks, looking at all of the other braids and beads in his hair, not knowing what else to say. “That is - if you’re allowed to tell me?”

“They show my… place,” he tells her somewhat vaguely. “As a Prince, and an heir…”

When the silence between them grows somewhat awkward, she turns away. 

She looks back at her garden with a small sigh. In spite of all her hopes, it will be a long time before life returns to this place. She looks down at blackened earth, wondering if grass would grow if she replaced it with new soil. It’s worth trying, she supposes. If she can bring this place back to life while Tilda is still young, it would be worth spending every moment of her time trying to find a way. Her sister has always wanted a garden, filled with trees and flowers. It’s something they’d never had – something she’s never been able to give her, until now. 

“When - uh, will you come back?” Fíli’s voice draws her from her thoughts, surprising her. “To the mountain, I mean.” 

“Soon, I expect.” She replies, looking back at him. It isn’t as if she has much of a choice. 

“Sigrid?” 

She startles at the sound of her father’s voice. She hadn’t heard him come in. 

She peers around the Dwarf to see him walking through the house, bow in hand. He looks tired, the shadows under his eyes seem deeper than usual. He smiles at the sight of her, but it’s short-lived. His expression darkens noticeably at the sight of the Dwarf. 

“Prince Fíli? What are you doing here?” 

“Prince Fíli just stopped by for a visit, Da.” She tells him, suppressing a smile at the way Fíli eyes her father’s bow warily. Bard’s eyebrows rise. 

“Is that so?” Her father asks, his tone sharper than it ought to be. She thinks she sees the Dwarf’s fingers twitch towards his axe, but it’s probably only her imagination. 

“Well. I’d better go,” Fíli says, clearing his throat. “Dáin will soon be arriving.” 

“I will walk with you.” Her father doesn’t give the Dwarf much of an option. “I have business with the King.” 

Sigrid glances between her father and Fíli, unsure whether to feel amused, confused, or concerned about the sudden tension between the two. She had thought her father liked Fíli - more than his uncle, at least.

“It was a pleasure to see you again, Lady Sigrid.” Fíli says and he reaches for her hand. Before she can even think to pull her hand away, he presses a kiss to her knuckles. It’s only a light, barely-there press of his lips but she feels her skin tingle even after he steps away. She pretends not to notice her father, awkwardly hovering at the doorway, glaring daggers at the Dwarf. “I look forward to your return to the mountain.” 

She bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling as her father all but drags the Dwarf through the house. She lifts her hand in a half-wave when Fíli looks back and feels her strangely cheeks warm at the way he suddenly grins. 

When the front door slams closed, she groans and she presses her cold fingers to her cheeks, shaking her head in despair. 

It isn’t long before Dara arrives. Enjoying a moment’s peace to herself is apparently too much to ask for. 

She's in the garden when the Dwarf arrives, churning up the hard earth with one of her father’s old swords. She has heard of farmers plowing fields before and assumes it’s something she needs to do. 

She hears the back door swing open, smacking into the wall with a bang. She looks up to see the Dwarf, red-faced and scowling under a thick layer of coats and furs. 

“By my beard,” the Dwarf gasps. “What are you doing, child?” 

“Gardening.” She says and raises an eyebrow. “What does it look like I’m doing?” 

“No, no, no. This will not do at all.” Dara snaps as she stomps towards her. The Dwarf casts a withering look at the state of her dress and then snatches the sword from her. “A Lady does not  _ traipse around in the mud  _ – especially with a sword that’s not even sharp! If you must handle a weapon, at least make sure it is proper Dwarven iron, and none of that rubbish you Men create.” 

“That’s my father’s old sword.” She says as the Dwarf tosses the sword into the dirt. 

“Well, he should be ashamed of himself.” Dara huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Sigrid huffs, but holds her tongue to refrain from saying something she’ll later regret. It isn’t that she dislikes Dara - quite the opposite, actually. When the Dwarf isn’t barking orders at her or chastising her like a child, they get on rather well. The Dwarf has a dry sense of humour Sigrid enjoys. But in moments like this, when Sigrid would rather do anything else than think about Dwarves and Erebor and her wedding, she can’t help but resent Dara’s presence.

“Have you come to bring me back?” She asks, her weariness creeping into her tone.

Much to her surprise, the Dwarf shakes her head.

“It’s too cold for you to be out here. You’ll catch your death, and all my efforts will be wasted.” Dara says and wraps an arm around Sigrid’s middle, towing her into the house with a surprising amount of strength of someone of her stature. 

Once they’re inside, Sigrid slips free of her grasp and leads them in the direction of the kitchen. After an hour or so in the garden, she could do with a cup of tea. 

Neither of them speak while Sigrid fills the kettle with water and lights the stove. She makes them both a cup of tea while the Dwarf sheds her multiple furs and coats. As she has come to expect, an array of daggers line the belt tied around Dara’s hips.

“So, my little birds tell me that the Prince visited you here today. Without a chaperone.” Dara says with a conspiratorial tone. Sigrid hands the Dwarf her cup of tea and rolls her eyes. 

“It was nothing. He stopped by to give me a gift.” She says, blowing on her tea.

Dara straightens. Her eyes widen comically as if Sigrid has shared some salacious secret with her.

“He gave you a gift? What kind of gift?” 

“A necklace,” she answers. “But I refused it, of course."

Dara blinks. 

“You what?” The Dwarf asks, frowning. “Say that again.”

“I refused his gift.” She says slowly, frowning back at the Dwarf. “I couldn’t accept it.”

“Was it displeasing?” Dara asks and she shakes her head. “Was it poorly made? Or unattractive in appearance?” Again, she shakes her head. “Did he offer it in an ungentlemanly manner?” She can’t help but snort at that, but shakes her head all the same. “Then why did you refuse?” 

Sigrid hesitates, unsure of how to answer.

In truth, there are many reasons why she refused Prince Fíli’s gift. But one stands out more than others.

“It was too grand,” she mutters. She doesn’t know why she’s telling Dara the raw, honest truth, but the words seem to spill out without her consent. “Too grand for the likes of me.” 

She bows her head, choosing to focus her attention on her tea instead. Her cheeks burn with shame. 

She expects the Dwarf to be angry, to tut and yell and call her ridiculous, but instead she gently touches her fingers to her chin and urges her to lift her head. 

The Dwarf’s expression is softer than she has ever seen it. She cannot find any pity in her eyes and for that, Sigrid is grateful.

“Now you listen to me, Sigrid. Nothing is too grand for you. You’re a lady. And you were a lady long before anyone gave your father a fancy title.” Dara’s smile is kind, almost… motherly – in a way she has not known for a very long time. She doesn’t know why, but it makes something inside of her crack, and she feels her throat tighten. When unwanted tears prickle in her eyes, Dara wraps her arms around her, pulling her into a bone crushing hug. 

“Oh, Mahal, forgive me,” The Dwarf exclaims. “I didn’t mean to upset you, dear.” 

She draws away with a watery laugh. 

“You didn’t upset me,” she says. 

But it has been on her mind a lot lately – this unshakable feeling of sadness, hanging over her like a dark cloud. 

But Sigrid hasn’t felt like herself in a long time, so she passed it off as nothing. Ever since that terrible day when the dragon came, nothing has ever been the same. She’s felt fractured, barely keeping it together by a thread. The sadness she’s been feeling in the last few weeks is like a drop in the ocean compared with everything else.

She thinks she understands it now. That, at the very least, is something.

“Sigrid?” Dara prompts, pulling back from their embrace with worry in her deep brown eyes. 

Sigrid sets down her tea and leans against the kitchen counter, looking down at the Dwarf with a rueful expression. 

“I’m alright.” She says and looks away from the Dwarf. She looks around the kitchen with a soft sigh. “Have I… Do you know about my mother, Dara? Why she isn’t-?” 

“I know that she passed when you were small. Bringing little Tilda into the world?” The Dwarf answers, her tone quiet, sympathetic. “I assumed as much. Too many are lost that way...”

Sigrid had been Tilda’s age when her mother died, too young to really understand what losing her meant, but old enough to remember her. She remembers her smile most of all, and how soft her voice had been when she sang her to sleep. 

When the Orcs had attacked Lake-town, she’d thought about her mother for the briefest instant.  _ No monsters here, darling,  _ her mother would always say when she checked under her bed,  _ nothing is going to hurt you here, my sweet. _ She’d wished for her in that moment, just as she wishes for her now.

“I… I just wish she was here,” she admits. “I didn’t think I’d be getting married without her…” 

“As long as you remember her, she’ll always be with you.” Dara says as she reaches out and squeezes her hand. Sigrid holds onto her hand for a moment, feeling the ache in her chest slowly lessen. She’s been told those words so many times in her life and never really believed them to be true. But strangely, for the first time in her life, they bring her a small shred of comfort. 

“I lost my mother as well, when I was quite young,” Dara tells her, her expression growing wistful. “She was a miner, you see. Raised me and my brothers by herself after my father died in battle. She always used to say that no matter what happens, you just have to keep digging, because you never know what you’ll find – it sounds a lot better in Khuzdul.” 

Dara lifts her other hand and touches Sigrid’s cheek. “I don’t think your mother would want you to be sad. Do you?” 

Her lips twist wistfully, but she shakes her head. 

“No,” she sighs at last. “She’d want me to be happy.” 

Dara gives her another hug – this one a little less bone crushing than before – and Sigrid smiles into her shoulder. She feels as though some of the burden on her soul has been lifted - but a Dwarf of all people. It isn’t what she would have expected from the gruff, pushy Dwarf who barged into her chamber two months ago and has stuck to her like glue ever since. 

Maybe they might even become friends one day. Maybe.

After they’ve both had a second cup of tea and enjoyed a rare, but comfortable silence, the Dwarf decides they’ve put off their lessons for long enough. 

Dara drags Sigrid through to the empty living room for a much-dreaded dancing lesson. She hates dancing lessons almost as much as she hates learning about all the strange rules and customs that go with living among Dwarves. As per usual, Dara has no time for her reluctance and grabs her hands with an impatient huff. 

Dara leads the dance, humming music under her breath. Dwarves have many dances, none of which she has been able to wrap her head around, much to Dara’s despair, and the lead often interchanges through the dance. 

“One, two, three. One, two, three. Turn.” The Dwarf counts, humming along to imaginary music. “One, two, three. Spin. One, two, three. Change. One, two, three. Spin again. No, no, no, not like that, like this.” 

Tilda and Bain - who had come downstairs at the sound of all the ruckus - sit at the foot of the stairs, laughing at the sight of their older sister being yelled at by a Dwarf almost half her height. She shoots a glare at them over Dara’s head, but it only makes them laugh even more. 

“Move your feet, Sigrid, you’re not some stumbling Goblin mutant. But – ah – mind my feet. If you step on the Prince’s feet like that, it might be considered treason.” 

It takes almost an hour before Dara can admit defeat. The Dwarf stumbles away from her, panting. 

“Alright,” she says. “I think that’s enough for one day. I don’t think my feet can take it anymore.” 

Sigrid cheers. In the last hour, she thinks she’s exhausted muscles she’s never even used before with all the ridiculous twisting and twirling. She collapses onto the sofa in a heap, exhausted, and drenched in sweat. 

_ “Finally.”  _ She sighs in relief, tipping her head back against the arm of the sofa.

Sadly, her brief moment of celebration is cut short by the sound of a horn blowing. 

Sigrid turns her head towards the noise. She closes her eyes with a heavy sigh, knowing it can mean only one thing. 

“What was that?” Bain asks, and she sighs once more. 

"Dáin,” she says despairingly. “It means Dáin Ironfoot has arrived."

She can practically hear the dreaded sound of wedding bells already. 


	3. Chapter 3

Sigrid is floating. 

The water is cool, but the sun is warm on her face. 

She can hear blackbirds and wrens singing among the shore-line trees, their pretty songs carrying across the water. It isn’t often she hears birdsong, save for the squawking of gulls. Once, when she was very small, her father took her into the woods to listen to the Elves sing. She had not the words to describe how beautiful it was; it was like nothing she had ever heard before, and she has not heard its like since. 

Her hands move just under the surface of the water, twisting and twirling in time to the memory of the soundless song. She hums and thinks of the stories oft shared by sun-addled sailors, of beautiful women emerging from the depths of the sea with the tail of a fish and a deadly kiss. She wonders how they dance, those creatures, somewhere deep under the sea. 

_“My little fish!”_ Her mother’s voice calls out to her, as soft and as gentle as the breeze drifting across the water. 

Sigrid smiles. _Five more minutes,_ she almost yells. But something niggles in the back of her mind, like a lone dark cloud creeping into her sunlit sky. 

She doesn’t want to open her eyes but when her mother’s voice calls out to her again, she has no choice. 

She cracks one eye open, squinting against the bright sun shining directly overhead. 

She turns her head, looking in the direction of her mother’s voice. She frowns when a lone figure on the rickety old pier greets her; not her mother, but a small boy sat on the weathered wooden planks, with his head in his small hands. She cannot see his face from so far away, but something inside her fractures, as if… as if... 

The sun is growing warmer, brighter. 

The once calm waters were growing restless around her, the wind and the current picking up. She pushes herself upright with a startled gasp, her legs working hard to keep her head above water. The boy is crying, wordlessly calling out for her to help him. 

Sigrid fights against the current; waves breaking against her as she struggles to get to the pier and the child. 

She’s always been a strong swimmer - she had to be, growing up in the middle of a lake - but she’s never swam in water as strong as this. So, when her fingers finally close around the ladder at the end of the pier, Sigrid closes her eyes in relief. 

And then all at once, a hush falls across the waters and the world grows still. 

And then she hears, somewhere far off in the distance, the ringing of a lone bell. 

Sigrid wakes with a gasp at the sound of a slamming door. 

“Rise and shine, sleep is for the dead,” Dara announces as she sweeps into Sigrid’s bedroom. Sigrid can only mumble in response. 

Her mind doesn’t register whatever Dara says next. Caught between her dream and waking, Sigrid barely notices anything at all. 

Sigrid stares at the cracks in the ceiling above her, her heart racing in her chest. Her nightdress is stuck to her, her body damp with sweat and feverishly warm. She can hear the bells ringing in her ears and she can feel the warmth of the inferno that followed on her face. The boy - the little, frightened boy on the pier - he wasn’t a dream, nor some cruel spectre her mind had created to torment her. He was real. He was a memory. 

She barely notices Tilda shifting beside her, not until her icy toes brush up against hers. Only then does awareness begin to trickle in, chasing away the terror of her nightmare. 

“Are you listening to me, girl?” Dara snaps her fingers in front of Sigrid’s face. The sound jolts her into reality. 

She blinks up at the Dwarf, who lifts one heavy brown back at her. Once, Sigrid would have found it bizarre, unheard-of even, to wake up to the sight of a tiny, bearded woman standing over her, but she has, unfortunately, become accustomed to it. Dara has been her constant companion since her appointment a month ago. 

“Up and at ‘em,” Dara claps her hands, “it’s time to face a dragon.” 

Tilda sits up beside her, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with her little balled-up hands. 

“There’s another dragon?” Tilda mumbles, sounding none too concerned. 

“Yes, I suppose you can say that,” Dara says. “Today your sister is being presented to her royal highness, Princess Dís.” 

Sigrid blinks, the words taking a moment to settle in. 

“Princess… Dís… is here? She - no, she wasn’t supposed to arrive for another week. You said -” 

“Princess Dís and her party from Ered Luin arrived two days ago,” Dara says and Sigrid gasps, scrambling out of bed. In her haste, she stumbles over her own feet. Dara steadies her with sure, rough hands and keeps her from falling flat on her face. “I wasn’t informed of her arrival until just this morning. Her royal highness didn’t wish to make a fuss, it seems, and arrived without ceremony.” 

Sigrid’s eyes lift a fraction at the obvious disapproval in Dara’s voice. 

“She is taking tea in her parlor this morning and has… requested your presence.” 

“Requested… or demanded?” 

Dara shrugs. “Is there a difference?” 

“No…” Sigrid sighs heavily, resigned to her fate. “I suppose not.” 

Dara clucks her tongue. Her eyes flash to the ceiling before she winds one strong arm around Sigrid’s waist and tows her from the room. Tilda’s chortles follow them as they walk out of the bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom - if a privy and a metal bucket can be really called a bathroom. 

If there’s one thing about living with Dwarves that she doesn’t despise, it’s the plumbing. 

As she leans over a sink that doesn’t work, her shoulders digging uncomfortably into the porcelain edge, and waits for Dara to pour cold water from the bucket onto her hair, she sighs, thinking about the hot water that comes straight from Dwarven pipes. It had been a revelation, the first time she’d ran a bath for herself and not had to warm the water in a pail over the stove beforehand. 

“You must understand, this is very important,” Dara tells her as she scrubs lavender scented soap throughout Sigrid’s long hair. “You will be presented to the Prince’s mother in front of as many as a dozen other Dwarves - or she may prefer to do it in private. Honestly, I’m not sure which is worse.” 

Sigrid grimaces. She doesn’t particularly like the sound of either of her options. 

“She’ll ask you questions, or she may say nothing at all, it’s entirely up to her royal highness’ discretion. Just promise me this – whatever you do, don’t cry or get angry.” 

Sigrid’s brows furrow. “Why would I cry?” 

“I’m just telling you, so you’re prepared. I’m sure it won’t come to that.” Dara says as she pours more water over her hair, trying far too hard to sound reassuring and unconcerned. “But… well, you see - from what I’ve heard, the Prince’s mother isn’t… pleased that the King has arranged her son’s marriage, instead of – well, his own. To you.” 

Sigrid’s head jerks up and she pushes her wet hair away from her face. 

“She – she wants me to marry the King?” She splutters in alarm. “Please tell me you’re joking!” 

Sigrid isn’t sure she could imagine a worse marriage. 

It isn’t that she hates King Thorin - 

The Dwarven King has, by all accounts, appeared to be a fair and just ruler since the battle that almost took his life, but she can barely look at him without remembering the scowling, ill-tempered Dwarf in her living room. The same Dwarf who had inadvertently caused her father’s arrest, glared at her for almost an hour after offering Master Baggins a cup of tea, set a dragon upon her home, and went to war over gold. 

The thought of being married to him makes her laugh a touch hysterically at first, then shudder. Fíli is most definitely the lesser of two evils. 

“It’s something of a scandal, you see.” Dara tells her as she washes the soap from her hair. “Not your engagement to Prince Fíli - that’s a different story - but the King’s relationship with the Halfling. There are a lot of ruffled feathers amongst Lord Dáin’s folk.” 

“The Halfling?” Sigrid frowns, blinking the water from her eyes. “You mean Master Baggins?” 

Dara hands her a towel with a solemn nod. 

The thought makes her pause. She cannot imagine the kindly, smiling Master Baggins with the dour Dwarven King. 

“I wasn’t aware that they were in a relationship.” She says slowly, still mulling the thought over in her head. Dara must be mistaken, surely. 

“That’s because they’re not. Or at least, that’s what I’ve heard.” 

Sigrid glances across at Dara with a dubious expression. She thinks of the ever-so polite Hobbit, with his waistcoats and handkerchiefs, and the eternal glower on the King’s face. She doesn’t believe it - opposites cannot attract that much. 

“It’s too early for your riddles, Dara.” She eventually sighs, shelving the matter for another time. She has much more important things to consider - like how she is going to make it out of her meeting with her future mother-in-law, the _princess of Erebor_ , alive. 

Within the hour, Sigrid finds herself standing outside the gates of Erebor, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole to save her from this wretched meeting. 

She feels ridiculous, trussed up on one of the new dresses Dara had made for her. 

The whalebone corset digs into her ribs painfully with every intake of air, as if punishing her for daring to breathe. She isn’t sure what it is about Dwarven fashion that disagrees so very much with the notion of _breathing_ , but she has had quite enough of it. 

It was fortunate that they were able to reach Erebor by carriage; she isn’t sure her people would have reacted kindly to the sight of her. 

She herself hadn’t known what to think when she had caught sight of her reflection. She scarcely recognised herself in her Dwarven style dress and jewels, and with elaborate braids in her hair. 

She fiddles with the gleaming, heavy gold chain around her wrist, finding the weight strange and unfamiliar. Erebor looms before her, looking every bit as daunting and foreboding as the people who reside inside of it. She glances across at Dara for courage, but the nervous look on the Dwarf’s face doesn’t help. She looks back at the towering gates of Erebor, swallowing thickly. 

_If Da can kill a dragon, I can face one Dwarf woman._

Though Sigrid has lived within the mountain for several weeks, she escapes to Dale whenever she’s able. She discovered quite quickly that the Dwarves don’t notice her comings and goings nearly as much as she had expected. Dara, no doubt, had been employed under the understanding that she was to give Lord Balin updates on the Prince’s soon-to-be bride, but Dara has proved her loyalty and kept Sigrid’s secrets close to her chest. 

In the months since the reconstruction began, Erebor has changed almost entirely from the rubble it had once been. The kingdom beneath the mountain is flourishing. 

Even Sigrid, as jaded as she is towards the place, cannot help but notice the changes. 

She looks around her as they walk, looking for any trace of the dragon. The blackened ground, the cracked stone, and signs of disrepair are all almost entirely gone. Great tapestries line the walls, and the light – there is so much light. 

She has seen for herself how tirelessly the Dwarves work, how their determination to return their home to what it once seems to border on obsession. 

But looking around her, at all they’d achieved in such a short amount of time, it puts the efforts of the people of Dale to shame. 

Sigrid feels sick as they climb the stairs that lead to the royal quarters. She passes by her own room and wishes more than anything that she could duck into it and bar the door. The door is mostly stone – she cannot imagine that even someone as determined as Dara with her trusty axe could get through it. 

Dara seems to sense what she’s thinking and grabs a hold of Sigrid’s sleeve. 

“Come, child. You mustn’t keep her royal highness waiting.” The Dwarf says and Sigrid sighs, having no choice but to follow. 

Two guards stand either side of Dís’ private quarters. They both carry axes taller than they are. 

One of the Dwarves, whose features she cannot make out behind his helm, looks her up and down before banging on the door with his metal gauntlet. The sound echoes, making her jump. 

A moment later, someone calls for them to enter. 

“Her royal highness will see you now, Lady Sigrid.” The Dwarf says before he steps aside, allowing her to enter. 

A dragon, indeed, she thinks when she first lays eyes on the Princes’s mother. 

Princess Dís is very beautiful – not just for a Dwarf, she thinks, but by any standard of beauty. 

She has the same raven hair as her son and brother, but she sees Fíli in her eyes and the shape of her jaw. She is dressed in a gown of deep blue, with a delicate lace trim that seems at odds with the armoured bodice and axe hanging by her hip. 

It is only when Sigrid looks closer that she realises that Princess Dís is the first Dwarf she has seen since the mountain was reclaimed who isn’t wearing any jewelry. From what Sigrid can see, the Dwarven princess wears no rings on her fingers, no precious gems, no obscene amounts of gold. Nothing. 

“You must be the Bowman’s daughter. We meet at last.” Princess Dís says when she catches sight of her, her impassive tone at odds with the way that she is looking at her. The Dwarf appraises her with one brow cocked and shrewd, narrowed eyes. 

She is short, even for a Dwarf, and yet when she stands before her, Sigrid feels as if the Dwarf is looking down at her. She feels very small under her gaze. 

Unsure what else to do, she dips in a clumsy attempt at a curtsy. 

“I – I am honoured to make your acquaintance, your highness.” Sigrid says, reciting the words Dara had taught her. 

“Well,” Dís hums, her impassive tone giving nothing away. “You have better manners than your father, at least.” 

When she winces, the Dwarf smirks. The expression doesn’t do much to soften her features. 

“You seem very young. How old are you?” 

“This will be my nineteenth winter.” She answers and the Dwarf’s eyebrows lift a fraction. 

Silently, Princess Dís’ eyes rake over her, and she circles her like a predator would its prey. 

Sigrid shifts uncomfortably under the intensity of her stare, fighting the urge to flee the room. She glances over her shoulder at Dara, looking to her for some shred of comfort, and the Dwarf smiles encouragingly. It doesn’t help. 

“And you lived in Lake-town, before it was destroyed by the dragon?” Princess Dís inquires, to which Sigrid nods jerkily. “Before those fools woke the dragon, I suppose I ought to say. I’m told I should thank you, for taking in my son. If not for your family and that Elf, he’d be dead.” 

Sigrid smiles hesitantly, unsure how she is supposed to react. 

“It's... what anyone would have done, your highness.” 

Princess Dís merely hums. For a long moment, she says nothing, simply watching her with those sharp, appraising eyes. 

“Come, let us talk more over tea.” The Princes’ mother says at last, and Sigrid barely resists the urge to sigh in relief. 

Her relief, however, is short-lived, as Dís looks at Dara when they move to sit down, seemingly noticing her for the first time. 

“Your friend may go,” she says dismissively, gesturing at the door. 

Sigrid plays with the heavy gold chain around her wrist anxiety, willing Dara with her eyes not to leave her alone with the other Dwarf. Dara shoots her an apologetic smile before she nods, bowing deferentially at the Dwarven Princess. 

Sigrid grimaces when she hears the door open and close behind Dara, leaving her trapped in the room alone with her future mother-in-law. 

She looks at the Prince’s mother, who sits across from her silently, and forces herself to smile. Don’t cry or get angry – she can do that. If she could spend years gritting her teeth and smiling politely whenever the Master or Alfrid spoke to her, she can talk to one Dwarf without getting upset. 

“How was your journey?” She asks as Dís pours the tea. 

“Long. Arduous. Thoroughly unenjoyable.” The Princess sighs, her expression darkening into a scowl. She looks a great deal more like her brother, the King, when she scowls. It doesn’t help make her any less intimidating. “Though it was not nearly as perilous as my brother’s journey. I suppose I’m fortunate in that respect. They couldn’t go three steps without stumbling into trouble.” 

Sigrid sips her tea, unsure what to say. 

“My brother certainly has a gift,” Dís mutters. “He can rile any force known to Middle Earth.” 

She just hums in response, wondering if insulting the King is considered treasonous to Dwarves. 

“I fear something strange befell them on their quest,” Dís continues with a heavy sigh, “considering _you_ are the most traditional choice for my son.” 

Sigrid’s gaze lifts a fraction at the implied insult, but she remains quiet. 

“I suspect the wizard has something to do with it. Or perhaps it was something they ate. Something that makes marrying an Elf and a Halfling seems perfectly sane. I’d put it down to my brother losing his wits again,” the Princess scoffs, “but he seems of sound mind – when that Halfling of his isn’t around, at least.” 

_So_ _it is true,_ she thinks absently. King Thorin and Bilbo... still, she would have to see it to believe it. 

“I do hope my son composes himself a little better around you.” 

When she fails to answer, Dís raises an eyebrow. 

“You don’t say much, do you?” 

Sigrid swallows, grimacing. 

“Speak, child. Or have you lost your tongue since you sat down?” 

“I’m sorry,” she cries, the words bursting out of her. She wilts under the Dwarf’s stern gaze, wanting nothing more than to bury her head in her hands. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to be rude. _Truly._ I know my place – or, at least, I did once. I’m - I’m just a bargeman’s daughter. No one, really. I belong with fishermen; I’ve got no place in fancy halls and kingdoms. The only princesses I ever knew were in _stories_. I never thought I’d be sitting across from one, drinking tea –” 

Dís leans back in her chair, appraising her curiously. 

“So, you’re humble. Though a little self-deprecating, if I may say so. It’s an admirable trait, I suppose. Not one commonly found amongst Dwarves, however. Nor one that is greatly respected.” Dís says as she sips her tea, her expression difficult to read. “You didn’t ask for this, did you? I’d wager that you were told you were going to marry my son, and no one ever thought to ask you your opinion.” 

“No, your highness, that’s not - I was asked. I chose this.” She mumbles, uncomfortable under her gaze. She leaves a lot unsaid and senses that the Dwarf understands that by the way that her eyebrows raise slightly. “My father would never force me to do something I didn’t want to do.” 

Dís sets down her tea, eyeing her discerningly. 

“No, but there is a difference between being forced and having no choice.” 

Sigrid blinks as the words settle in, finding truth in the Princess’ words. She hadn’t had a choice, not really. Her choice had been between marrying Prince Fíli and dooming her own people. 

“Come,” Dís says after a long moment of silence. “I need to stretch my legs.” 

The Dwarf is on her feet and marching out the door before Sigrid has even set down her cup of tea. 

She hastily scrambles out of the chair and hurries after the Princes’ mother, wringing her hands nervously when she notices that Dara is nowhere to be found. 

She follows Dís down the long corridor, surprised at how quickly she moves with such short legs. 

The thick stone walls seem to echo every sound, making her certain – from the way the Princes’ mother keeps looking at her – that she can hear her heart racing. 

Erebor is one overly large maze to her, and she is lost almost immediately. But what she does recognise is the kitchens, and she freezes at the sight of Fíli. 

And his brother. And the King. And Master Baggins. And the mean, bald Dwarf who had threatened to tear Bain’s arms off. As well as Bofur and Balin and the quiet one who used to have an axe in his head. 

She shifts uncomfortably when everyone in the room grows quiet and looks their way. She glances at Dís and sees that the Dwarf is scowling. Everyone in the room, with the exception of Master Baggins, seems to shrink under her gaze. 

“You must be hungry,” Dís says, glancing across at her briefly. 

“Oh – no, I’m –” She begins to stay, stammering slightly, and the Dwarf scowls. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. Go sit with Fíli and Kíli while I have a word with my brother.” 

The King’s head jerks up at that, and with a grimace, obediently gets to his feet. 

His scowl matches his sister’s as he walks towards her, dragging his feet and muttering something under his breath. The sight makes her smile for a moment before she realises that it’s a King and a Princess that’s amusing her. 

She quickly ducks her head and walks over to the table, albeit reluctantly. Everyone has gone back to their meals, so no one pays her any mind as she sits down on the empty seat between the two princes – which she could have sworn hadn’t been there a minute ago. 

“Good morning, Lady Sigrid.” Master Baggins says kindly. 

“Good morning,” she replies, mustering up a polite smile for the Hobbit who is sat opposite her. 

No one else bothers to greet her, but she hadn’t expected them to. Dwarves, she has found, don’t have much time for common courtesies. Especially not to outsiders. 

Beside her, Fíli seems tense. She pretends not to notice. 

Uncomfortable, and unsure what to do with herself, while everyone tucks into their breakfast and continues their own conversations around her, she helps herself to a piece of bread and liberally spreads jam over it. 

“I think Mum likes you.” Kíli says through a mouthful of food. It takes her a moment to realise he’s talking to her. 

“Somehow I doubt that,” Sigrid mutters, not lifting her gaze from her piece of bread. 

“Oh no, she definitely does.” Kíli insists. 

She glances across at him and frowns slightly. “How do you know?” 

“You’d know if she didn’t like you,” Kíli tells her, and for some reason, her gaze meets Fíli’s for a moment. She looks away quickly, returning her gaze to her piece of bread. “If she starts yelling at you, it means she _really_ likes you. Mum scolds to show she cares.” 

“Oh... well, she was perfectly nice, if a little terrifying.” She says and takes a bite of her piece of bread. It’s the most diplomatic answer she can think of. 

“How are Bain and little Tilda?” Bilbo asks as he piles more food onto his plate. 

“They’re well, thank you.” 

It’s not quite the honest truth, but it’s true enough not to be a lie. Tilda is strong, she can bounce back from anything, but both she and Bain suffer from nightmares. Tilda can scarcely stand being apart from any of them for more than a few minutes and Bain flinches away from even the smallest flame. It will be a long time before the scars of their past fade and they’re truly _well._

“Lady Sigrid - you have a bit –” Fíli mumbles and she turns to him with raised brows. “Here, let me -” 

Before she even realises what he meant, he reaches out and holds her gaze while he gently wipes a little bit of jam from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. His calloused fingers are unexpectedly soft against her skin. 

Her cheeks grow very warm and she quickly looks away, awkwardly mumbling her thanks before she returns to her jam and bread. 

If her heart had been racing before, it suddenly feels like it’s trying to burst out of her chest. 

She misses the look everyone gives them, and especially misses the wink Bofur shoots Fíli’s way. 

She doesn’t think about it. She doesn’t think about the deep blue of his eyes or the warmth of his fingers. She doesn’t. 

“Master Baggins, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” She says after a moment, after her head has cleared and her racing heart has slowed back to normal. 

The Hobbit sets down his cutlery and lifts his head, looking intrigued. The others – not so much. The mean-looking one, Dwalin is glaring daggers at her from the other end of the table, like she’s about to say something slanderous. 

“It’s about gardening.” She continues, choosing to pay no attention to the Dwarves. “I was told Hobbits know a great deal.” 

“Of course, ask me whatever you like. I’d be glad to help.” 

Sigrid feels hope swell inside her. “Really?” 

“Of course. It’s my pleasure.” The Hobbit smiles. 

“You don’t have to, of course – but I’d love to get your opinion on the soil in Dale. I asked some people in the markets and they say it’s hopeless, but I can’t give up, not if there’s a chance. It’s for my sister, you see. Tilda. She’s always wanted a garden, and after all that’s happened, I thought it might be good for her. It might help make it feel more like home...” She trails off, realising with a sinking feeling that everyone at the table is staring at her. 

There’s something guilty about the way Bilbo looks at her, making her immediately regret ever having spoken. 

She’s saved any further awkwardness by the return of Princess Dís and the King, who returns to his seat red-faced and frowning. 

Bilbo smiles at the King when he plants his elbows onto the table, sighing. The two share a glance and Sigrid watches as Thorin’s expression slowly softens into something almost resembling a smile. 

“Lady Sigrid and I were just discussing gardening.” The little Hobbit tells the King with a cheery grin. 

“Were you?” Thorin responds, his tone lighter than she has ever heard it, almost _warm._

_“_ Indeed,” Bilbo says and returns his gaze to her. “I can have a look at the soil if you like and see if it’s salvageable. I don’t see why it shouldn’t be, though. In a lot of cases, I’ve heard that fire can actually be beneficial. I don’t see why dragon fire should be any different.” 

Now that she’s seen it for herself, Sigrid isn’t sure how she never noticed it before. She can’t help but glance at the King while Bilbo is speaking, entirely taken aback by the looks he shoots the Hobbit's way when he thinks he isn’t looking. 

“I can stop by whenever you like, I won’t be going home until after the wedding.” Bilbo tells her with a friendly smile. 

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to be an inconvenience –” 

“It would be my pleasure.” The Hobbit says. And then she realises what he said. 

“You’re leaving?” She can’t help but ask, inadvertently glancing at the King. 

The Dwarf’s face betrays nothing, but she sees his jaw clench and his hands curl into fists on his lap. 

She looks around her, at the faces of the other Dwarves, and notices how similar their expressions are. They look pained, utterly miserable at the thought of losing their friend, and the smiling Hobbit doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Yes,” Bilbo laughs, “I’ve put off leaving for long enough.” 

The King’s chair scrapes back across the stone floor and he gets to his feet. 

“Dáin is expecting me.” He mutters, nodding at the Hobbit curtly before he storms out of the room. 

Bilbo stares after him, his sunny smile quickly fading away. 

When the white-haired Dwarf, Balin excuses himself a little more politely and follows his King, the Hobbit looks back at his breakfast with drawn eyebrows and pushes his plate away. The conversations around the table have all ceased, leaving the room painfully quiet. 

She finds herself glancing at Fíli helplessly. 

“If you’ll excuse us, I promised to show Sigrid the treasury.” He says when she meets his eye, breaking the silence. 

Dís looks somewhat suspicious but does not object. 

“Bring your brother with you, you’ll need a chaperone.” The Princess says, waving her hand in dismissal. 

Sigrid practically shoves the rest of her bread and jam down her throat in her haste to leave. 

She nods her head in what she hopes in a respectful manner to Dís and pushes back her chair, following Fíli and Kíli’s lead. The brothers walk on either side of her, Kíli all but dragging her out of the room. For the second time that day, she is surprised at how quick Dwarves are on their feet. 

She feels like she can finally breathe again when the doors to the hall close behind them. 

“They’re madly in love,” Kíli says when they’re alone, leaving the oppressive silence behind them. “They just don’t know it yet. It’s a tragedy, really.” 

Sigrid thinks of the barely concealed sorrow on Bilbo’s face and has to agree. 

“And yet you’re smiling.” She says, curious. “Why?” 

“Because we’ve got a plan.” The dark-haired Dwarf answers, exchanging a grin with his brother. 

Kíli’s skips ahead and whirls around so that he is walking backward in front of them. She knows enough about the Dwarf to be wary of the wide, mischievous grin plastered across his face. 

Fíli falls into step beside her, smiling slightly when she looks his way. 

_It could be_ _worse,_ she thinks as she looks at him, but the sight of the golden bead in his hair makes the small smile she shoots his way falter. 

“And what is your plan, if you don’t mind my asking?” She inquires, her gaze flickering back to the dark-haired Dwarf. 

“Not here!” Kíli exclaims. “You never know who’s listening!” 

She finds herself glancing over her shoulder unconsciously, half-expecting Dara to be following them in the shadows. If someone were to tell her that the walls of Erebor had ears, she’d be inclined to believe them. There’s something about the way the stone echoes every sound that unnerves her. 

“Where are we going anyway?” She asks when she looks back at the two Dwarves, the architecture painfully unfamiliar. 

Everything about Erebor seems to look the same. Even after a few weeks of living within the mountain, she is still no closer to understanding its geography. She fears that she’ll have to leave breadcrumbs behind her whenever she goes anywhere, else she’ll wind up wandering the halls night and day trying to find her way around. 

Dara had laughed when Sigrid had asked if she could draw her a map. 

“The treasury.” Kíli answers with a shrug. “Figured you might want to take a look. Everyone always does.” 

“I thought you just said that as an excuse to leave.” She says, her eyes narrowing in feigned suspicion. 

“He did.” Fíli leans in close to whisper. “He’s just afraid Mum will have his beard if she hears he lied to her.” 

“Well, we can’t be having that,” Sigrid says with a teasing grin. 

“Hey! What are you two whispering about?” Kíli demands, his eyes flicking between them suspiciously. 

“Nothing.” They both answer at once, and she ducks her head to hide her smile. 

The two brothers bicker back and forth, their voices echoing throughout the long, empty corridors. She tunes them out, focusing her attention on the massive tapestries that line the stone walls. She cannot make out the words that are written, written in that strange language of theirs. _Runes,_ she thinks Dara had called the similar-looking lines and shapes etched into the gold bead braided into her hair. 

They round yet another corner in the seemingly endless corridor, and then she sees it. 

She halts mid-step, unable to do anything but stare. 

The treasury is entirely how it has been described to her, yet it still manages to steal her breath away. Mountains of gold spread out as far as the eye can see and precious gems glitter in the candlelight like stars plucked from the night sky. She thinks she could spend a thousand years trapped inside this fathomless hall and never finish counting all the gold. 

This was where the dragon slept all those years, just like the stories said, buried beneath the great wealth of the Dwarves of Erebor. 

She tries to imagine it - the monster who descended from the heavens and unleased its fury upon their sleepy town - residing within these walls. She shivers. Even dead, the memory of the great doom of Laketown strikes fear into her heart. 

Either side of her, Fíli and Kíli stare down at the riches of their people, the gold reflecting in their eyes. She thinks she sees something akin to pride in their eyes. 

She looks back at the gold, at the rivers of jewels, and feels only revulsion. So much blood was paid, so many lives lost, for the treasure that sits gathering dust. What need did the Dwarves have for such wealth? 

“It’s... very grand.” She murmurs, unsure what else to say. The words taste like ashes on her tongue. 

Sigrid remembers when her family was a few pieces of gold away from having nothing. She remembers her father working himself down to the bone just to keep them from going hungry. She looks down at the heavy gold chain shackled to her wrist and wonders how much food that could have gone for. 

She wonders if it is the gold that is cursed as they were always led to believe, or if the sickness dwells within the hearts of all Dwarves, lying in wait and biding its time. She finds herself looking at Fíli and Kíli, hoping – for their sake – that neither is true. 

But the greed of Dwarves is well known. 

Not for the first time, she wonders if it was not their home the Dwarves were so desperate to reclaim, but the gold residing within these walls. 

She casts one final despairing glance at the gold before she turns away, feeling sick to her stomach. Nothing good can come of it. A rich kingdom fairs well, but a treasure such as this – she fears that it will draw only ill, that others will look to the mountain once more as a prize for the taking. 

And her people will ever be caught in the crossfire. 

“I’d like to leave now.” She says, surprising both Dwarves. 

She wraps her arms around herself, stalking back the way they came. She doesn’t know if she can be married to someone who loves gold and jewels more than what’s truly important in life. 

She had hoped Fíli might be different, but she’s been wrong about people before. 

She chews on her lip as she walks away, determined to leave the wretched place behind her. She pauses only when she hears Fíli call her name. 

“Is everything alright?” The Dwarf jogs over to her, his brows drawn together in concern. 

“Yes,” she forces a smile onto her lips. “Everything’s fine. It’s just – I ought to find Dara. She’ll wonder where I am.” 

It’s a lie, as plain as day, but neither Dwarf comments on it. 

She can feel Fíli’s eyes on her as they walk back through the long corridors, watching her closely. She pretends not to notice. 

The silence is tense, and she knows that she is the cause, but she has too much on her mind to muster up any small talk. 

They’re walking back through the entrance hall, looking for Dara, when they’re spotted by a large group of Dwarves. 

They’re an intimidating bunch. They all look like different variations of Dwalin – tattooed and terrifying, carrying axes that are almost as tall as they are. 

The apparent leader of the group, who breaks away from the others and shouts Fíli and Kíli’s name in a great, booming voice, looks somewhat familiar. 

It’s only when he approaches them that she realises who he is. 

Sigrid has only seen the Lord of the Iron Hills in the flesh once. She had seen him in the aftermath of the battle, bloody and burned, sitting vigil over his cousin, King Thorin. The Dwarf had mistaken her for an Elven healer and barked for her to get out. 

The person barreling over to them looks nothing like the angry, broken Dwarf she remembers. 

“Lord Dáin,” Fíli says a respectful nod. “How went the hunt?” 

“Aye, got us a couple of boars, we did. Big ones!” Lord Dáin’s booming laugh startles her, causing her to stumble slightly into Fíli’s side. One of Fíli’s arms moves to steady her and just for a moment, his fingers curl around her waist. The weight of his hand is unexpected and unfamiliar. 

“And who might this be?” The Lord of the Iron Hills asks with a knowing gleam in his eyes. 

“This is Lady Sigrid, of Dale.” Fíli replies, his hand quickly dropping from her waist. 

“By my beard! If it isn’t the blushing bride-to-be!” Lord Dáin exclaims and snatches up her hand, kissing the back of it. 

Sigrid’s eyes widen and a breathless, almost hysterical laugh escapes her lips. Lord Dáin lips linger a little too long for her liking, his eyes never leaving hers, making her shift uncomfortably. She wonders if it is a Dwarf thing, to be so overly familiar with strangers. 

“I don’t know why we haven’t been introduced sooner!” The Dwarf Lord says when he finally releases her hand. “I blame Fíli, for keeping you all to himself.” 

Sigrid smiles somewhat uncertainly. “It – it’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Dáin.” 

“The pleasure is all mine, my dear lady.” The Dwarf says, with a wink that makes Fíli clear his throat. 

She’s never been so grateful to see anyone when she spots Dara hurrying towards them, half-buried under a large, multi-coloured bundle. 

“And who might this be?” Dáin laughs. 

“Dara, of the Iron Hills.” Sigrid responds, reaching out to help Dara with her burden. 

“Your servant?” 

“My friend.” She answers without hesitation. 

Dara bows her head respectfully to Dáin and the two Princes before she turns to Sigrid. 

“We have urgent business to attend to, my lady. No time for chit-chat.” Dara says somewhat breathlessly, a hand shooting out from beneath the bundle to grab her arm. “There’s been a disagreement between the two dressmakers I have chosen. They both wish to be given the honour of _Royal Dressmaker_ _._ And since there can only be one, if there is to be one _at all_ – we need to talk to the King. Now.” 

“Do you know where Thorin is?” Fíli asks Dáin. 

“No, lad. Can’t help you there, I’m afraid. I haven’t seen him all day.” 

“He left breakfast early to meet with you.” Fíli says and he exchanges a glance with his brother. 

Dáin shrugs his broad, armoured shoulders. “I’d wager he’s around here somewhere, scowling.” 

“And avoiding his duties, as per usual.” One of the Dwarves gathered behind Dáin mutters. To his credit, Dáin turns and shoots a fierce glare in the Dwarves’ direction, silencing the muttering. 

“Well,” Sigrid murmurs uncomfortably, “I ought to go.” 

“I sincerely hope to see more of you in the future, Lady Sigrid.” Dáin says and kisses the back of her hand again. 

Sigrid’s cheeks burn and she barely resists the urge to snatch her hand out of his grasp. She shoots a glance at Fíli and forces a smile onto her lips. 

“Maybe I’ll see you at supper?” She offers, though she knows with certainty that she won’t. If she cannot sneak away to Dale, she takes her meals in her rooms, either by herself or with Dara. She avoids the big, crowded Dwarven feasts like the plague. 

Fíli just nods in response, one corner of his lips tugging up in a smile. 

With a face like a thundercloud, Dara pulls at her arm and tows her away. 

“Oh, the nerve of that Dwarf!” Dara mutters when they’re out of earshot, releasing her tight grip on her arm. “I don’t want you spending any more time than you have to around him.” 

Sigrid glances over her shoulder at where Lord Dáin is still stood talking with Fíli and Kíli. 

“I hadn’t planned on it.” She says. 

“Yes, well.” Dara huffs, shifting the bundle of clothes in her arms so that she’s able to face Sigrid. “You must be very careful. There’s talk – not everyone is happy under the King’s rule. They say it should be Lord Dáin on the throne, as it was his army who helped turn the tide of the battle. Others say the King’s still under the curse, that he’s not right in the head.” 

“People actually think that?” She asks in disbelief. “I thought all your lot loved the King?” 

“Politics,” Dara spits. “It’s a dirty business.” 

Sigrid can only hum. Her father will need to be informed. She doubts she will be able to slip away to Dale this afternoon, not with all this wedding nonsense breathing down her neck. Tomorrow, on the other hand... 

“So how do we remedy this disagreement?” She asks, changing the subject to the matter at hand. “Is it really so bad that we have to talk to the King?” 

“Oh, that dressmaker nonsense?” Dara laughs. “When I heard about all the fuss they were making, I gave them both a stern talking to and they backed down almost immediately. No, no, I just said that to get you out of there. You looked like you needed rescuing – and if I hadn’t swooped in when I did, well, I think the Prince might have spoken out of turn.” 

Dara rolls her eyes at her confused expression and sighs. 

“Dwarves don’t like sharing their treasure, Sigrid.” She says, as if it’s all suddenly meant to make sense. 

“What did I tell you about your riddles?” Sigrid chides lightly. 

Dara only smiles. 

“You’ll just have to work that one out for yourself.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to post this on Valentine's Day so I'm posting it while it's still the 14th for most of the world. It's almost 3am for me so I'll be back in the morning to check for mistakes.
> 
> This is almost double the original chapter's word length. Oops.

The night before her wedding, Sigrid can’t sleep.

_Wedding jitters,_ someone might say. Or others - _cold feet._

Whatever it is, it has her biting her nails down to the quick in the oppressive darkness of her room. There are no windows in the little cave they deem fit to call her quarters, making it impossible for her to know how long she has sat awake, worrying about the day to come.

Her wedding dress hangs from the wardrobe opposite her bed. In the darkness of the room, the white and gold dress stands out, watching over her like a ghostly spectre. The tiny jewels that are sewn into the bodice glimmer in the faint light from the dying hearth.

It will be the first time in known history that an outsider has worn a traditional Erebor-style wedding gown. Finding a way to tailor the style of dress to her much different body type had been a challenge, and the dressmakers worked tirelessly under Dara’s strict guidance. For weeks she has been in and out of fittings, but tomorrow will be the first time she has seen the finished product. 

Sigrid had never paid much thought to her wedding day, but she never could have dreamed it would be anything like this.

Dwarves from throughout the land have been invited. _Hundreds_ will attend the wedding feast in her and Fíli’s honour.

Everyone will be watching her - the _outsider_ marrying their precious prince.

And throughout it all, she will be alone. Neither her father nor Dara are permitted to attend the ceremony and have been regulated to a table far from hers at the feast.

She supposes she ought to be grateful that her father insisted on a second ceremony - one for her, in the manner of her own people. At least then she knows she’s getting married and what exactly she’s promising in her vows.

From what Dara has told her, she’s not required to say anything during the Dwarven ceremony – the King does all the speaking. And what the King says will remain a mystery to her. The Dwarves will not share their language with anyone, it seems, even the future wife of their prince.

There are no spoken vows exchanged between her and her husband-to-be. For Dwarves, the acceptance of courting and the exchanging of beads equate to vows. All she needs to do is look like she’s listening, even though she won’t understand a word of it, and plait another braid into Fíli’s hair. 

She’s almost more afraid of the ceremony in Dale than the Dwarvish one, for she knows exactly what that entails. 

A small part of her is acutely aware of the fact that she’ll have to kiss him – Fíli is kind enough and undeniably handsome beneath all that facial hair, and she knows she should consider herself lucky, but it doesn’t change how she feels. 

Sigrid wasn’t a romantic by nature; she had never given much thought to the man she might someday marry. She never truly expected to marry for love, as her mother and father did, but all the same, she cannot help but wish things were different. 

And if she had just a little more time, perhaps she wouldn’t be so afraid. 

With a heavy sigh, she throws back the covers and gets up. She’s far too tightly wound to get any sleep, so she drags on a coat and stomps into the parlour. 

She lights the oil lanterns and paces the length of the parlour, fiddling with a loose thread on the sleeve of her old coat. 

For a brief, mad moment, as she paces, she considers running away. She could saddle a horse - ignoring the fact that she has never ridden one before - and ride off into the proverbial sunset. She could find the Shire and see for herself all the lovely places Bilbo has told her about. She could see the garden the Hobbit so lovingly described when helping her with her own.

But she could never come back; she doubts very much that the Dwarves would forgive or forget such a transgression. 

Sigrid isn’t sure how long she paces the length of her parlour before there is a tentative knock at her door.

The sound, though quiet, startles her. She whirls around, her heart in her throat.

“Hello?” She calls out after a beat, wary. She cannot imagine who might be knocking on her door so late at night. It cannot be Dara - the Dwarf is not known for knocking. Nor can it be her father, who is not permitted to stay inside the mountain unless given permission by the King. She knows he sought it at one point, in order to be there for her before her wedding day, but King Thorin had declined his request.

The door cracks open.

“Lady Sigrid?” A quiet voice calls from the other side of the door. “Are you awake?”

At once, she relaxes at the sound of Bilbo’s voice.

“Yes, I’m awake. Please, come in.” She calls back and a moment later the Hobbit peers through the gap in the door.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you.” The Hobbit says as he slips into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. The Hobbit is bundled up in a thick dressing gown with his curly hair uncharacteristically rumpled. He looks tired, more drawn than the last time she had seen him, but he smiles brightly at the sight of her. “I was just on my way to the kitchens for a midnight snack and saw that your light was on. Can you not sleep?”

Sigrid shakes her head and the Hobbit makes a sympathetic sound.

“How about a couple of tea? My father always used to say, there’s nothing better than a nice cup of tea when you’re feeling a bit out of sorts.” Bilbo suggests and she can't help but smile at the Halfling’s earnestness. 

“That would be lovely.” She says.

“I have a lovely brew from home I’ve been saving. Chamomile with a hint of lavender and mint - just the ticket. ” The Hobbit gestures for her to follow him and chatters away as they walk through the dark, claustrophobic corridors to his room. 

She isn’t sure there is anyone else in the mountain - or anywhere at all, outside of her family - that she’d follow into their chambers in the middle of the night without a second thought. But there is something inherently trustworthy about Bilbo - something sincere and strangely guileless about the little creature the Dwarves affectionately call their burglar.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Bilbo suddenly says when they reach the door to his private rooms. “I have an early wedding present for you.”

“Oh.” Sigrid blinks. “You didn’t - that’s not -”

“Please.” The Hobbit smiles, patting her hand. “I insist.”

Bilbo opens the door to his chambers and bustles inside, humming a tune under his breath as he lights the sconces.

Sigrid only manages to take one step over the threshold before she stops, her mouth falling open in surprise. 

“Oh.” She says again, astonished. 

Unlike the dark, stone-walled set of rooms the Dwarves have put her in, Bilbo’s do not feel like a cave. The front door opens to a cozy mixture between a parlour and a living room. Comfortable armchairs are pushed in front of a large, blazing hearth and pretty vases with an assortment of flowers in them are placed throughout the room, adding a touch of colour to offset the dark stone walls.

Instead of cold, polished stone, the floors are lined with rugs. There is even a painting on the wall that is not one of the Dwarves’ dour portraits, but a vibrant scene of two figures rowing a little boat on a tranquil lake dotted with lily pads. Several carved wooden doors led to rooms she cannot see but hopes she might have a chance to explore.

“You have _windows!”_ Sigrid exclaims when her gaze lands on them, speaking with a reverence she never would have expected when talking about windows, of all things. But living these past few weeks with Dwarves has taught her to appreciate the things she had taken for granted before. Like windows and sunlight, and not being the tallest person in the room.

Tall windows almost double the size of her line the far wall, offering - she imagines - a truly spectacular view of the plains and the lake during the day. The windows are bracketed by undrawn curtains in a deep blue colour, embroidered with a complex silver pattern she cannot quite make out from where she is standing.

“Actually,” the Hobbit smiles, “ _you_ have windows.”

Sigrid blinks. “Excuse me?”

“They’re my gift to you. These rooms.” Some of the sunshine in Bilbo’s smile dims as he looks around the room, his gaze lingering on the two armchairs pushed together in front of the fireplace. “It would be a shame for them to go to waste.”

Sigrid was at a loss for words.

“I couldn’t - the King’s Company, wouldn’t they -” Sigrid attempts to say, stumbling over her words. She can’t accept such a generous gift. She really shouldn’t accept, no matter how much she might want to...

“I thought you might appreciate them more. Dwarves don’t seem to mind the dark.” The Hobbit says, smiling softly in understanding. And he does understand, she realises. Hobbits - who, as she has been told, love all things that grow - must wither in the dark of the mountain. Perhaps that is why Bilbo is determined to leave Erebor.

“It’s too generous.” Sigrid insists weakly, her resolve wavering.

“Nonsense,” Bilbo says, his back to her as he hangs a pot of water over the fire. “It’s a wedding gift. And you can’t refuse a wedding gift, it’s bad luck.”

Sigrid closes the door behind her and clasps her hands together. 

“You’ve done so much for me - the garden and now this? However can I repay you?”

In less than two months, the Hobbit has done more for her garden than she could have accomplished in a year. Even the most stubborn weeds have been uprooted and the blackened earth has been replaced with rich, new soil and seedlings. There will be flowers by next spring and trees for Tilda to play under. 

The Hobbit starts to turn then pauses. Sigrid watches his profile, watching his expression shift as he seems to mull her question over in his head.

“Fíli is a good lad.” Bilbo eventually says, looking at her from over his shoulder. “A brave -” he clears his throat, “wonderful boy. Be good to him. That’s all I ask in return.”

For a second time, Sigrid finds herself lost for words. The Hobbit seems to take her silence for an answer and returns to preparing their tea, quietly humming a sombre sounding tune she doesn’t recognise under his breath.

“I’ll try.” Sigrid eventually settles on, uneasy with the thought of making a promise she has no idea how to keep.

Unsure what else to say, Sigrid sinks into one of the armchairs by the fire. The chair is almost comically small for her - undoubtedly built with a Hobbit in mind. Her knees are level with her chest and the back of the chair is only just level with her shoulders, but the cushioning is plush and comfortable enough that she doesn’t mind.

“If you’re hungry, Bombur has a small army running the kitchens. They’ve been working night and day preparing for the feast. I’d wager they wouldn’t notice if a pie or two went missing.” Bilbo says over his shoulder as he prepares their tea.

Sigrid ducks her head to hide her grimace.

“I’m fine,” she says, keeping her gaze focused on her clasped hands. “But thank you.” 

Bilbo merely hums, setting a teapot and two intricately painted teacups on the little table between the chairs.

“When do you leave for the Shire?” Sigrid asks, in a less than subtle attempt at changing the conversation.

“Well, that depends on Gandalf,” the little Hobbit replies. When she frowns, not recognising the name, Bilbo laughs quietly. “The wizard. Pointy hat, big grey beard? He’ll be joining me on my journey home. I suspect we’ll leave shortly after he returns from the Woodland Realm.”

She nods, humming absently as she toys with one of the little buttons on her sleeve.

“You will be missed,” she says and looks up to meet the Hobbit’s eye when he sits down on the chair next to her. “Not just by the Dwarves.”

“Ah, well… the feeling is mutual,” Bilbo assures her, smiling a little awkwardly, but with a hint of sadness in his eyes. “After all the excitement of the last two years, the Shire will seem very dull indeed. Good company will not be so easy to come by, though the Sackville-Bagginses never had much of a chance...”

The Hobbit laughs quietly, but the sound doesn’t ring true. Sigrid cannot help but lean forward in her seat, struck by the memory of the way King Thorin and Bilbo had looked at each other in the dining hall when they both thought the other wasn’t looking.

“But I miss my books, and my armchair…” Bilbo says, and the words sound rehearsed, as though he has said them one too many times. Sigrid isn’t sure who he is trying to convince - her, or himself.

_They’re madly in love, they just don’t know it yet,_ Kíli had said. And thought his words had been in jest, they had not been a lie.

“Bilbo…” Sigrid begins warily, biting her lip. 

“Yes?” The Hobbit glances up at her but doesn’t pause as he pours them both some tea. 

“Forgive me if I am overstepping but you... seem to truly care about these Dwarves. And I know that they love you. Anyone with eyes can see that.” 

Even in Laketown, when the Dwarves had been rude and grizzly and frightening, it had been obvious how much they cared about the smallest member of their group. They had gathered around the little Hobbit, who had been struck with a cold, and glowered at anyone who came too close. 

“So I was wondering - do you not suppose you could be happy here? Do you really have to leave? I’m sure the Dwarves would do anything they could to make Erebor a home for you.”

Sigrid gnaws on her lower lip as she watches the Hobbit’s face, anxiously waiting for him to react. But for a long moment, Bilbo’s expression doesn’t change. He seems almost frozen still. 

Then Bilbo’s nose twitches, and he blinks several times. His expression changes too quickly for her to properly gauge his reaction. He seems to attempt to smile reassuringly before he ducks his head and focuses on pouring their tea once again. 

“I’m sorry - if that was -”

“No, no, nothing to be sorry about.” Bilbo attempts to assure her, but his tone is off, stilted. He sets down the teapot and clears his throat. “I should fetch you a biscuit.”

The Hobbit bustles away before she can say anything, leaving her and her guilt alone in the once so inviting living room. Sigrid sags against the back of the small armchair, tipping her head back with a heavy sigh. _Of course_ she has to go and offend the one person in the mountain who isn’t only nice to her because they’re obliged to.

Bilbo is gone for what feels like a very long time.

Sigrid knows she ought to go after him and make amends for putting her nose where it doesn’t belong, but she’s too afraid of only making things worse. 

After a while, and several minutes of her working up the courage, Sigrid pushes herself to her feet. It’s only then that she notices the little acorn placed on the top of the stone-lined hearth. It strikes her as strange to see such a thing displayed. 

She does not have a chance to question the significance of the acorn however, as she hears light footfalls and the creak of a door, announcing Bilbo’s return.

Struck with guilt, she expects to see the Hobbit red-faced, with eyes wet with tears. But the Hobbit steps back into the room brandishing a tin of biscuits, with a smile plastered across his face. In her surprise, Sigrid forgets all about the little acorn sitting alone on the hearth.

“Found them at last,” Bilbo says. “I have to hide them to keep Bofur’s thieving mitts off of them and I keep forgetting where I put them.”

“Oh,” is all she manages to say, struck dumb. It takes her a moment to recover. “It’s - - alright. I hope I didn’t offend you. I wasn’t - I wasn’t trying to -”

“Nonsense.” The Hobbit smiles, though there is still a hint of strain around the edges, and in his eyes. “Now, have a biscuit.”

Sigrid takes a biscuit and Bilbo nods approvingly. He takes his seat beside her in front of the warmth of the fire and digs into the box of biscuits with a gusto she believes only Hobbits and the starving are capable of. 

They do not speak about weddings, or Dwarves, for the rest of the night. They sit and drink the lukewarm tea and speak of very little at all. 

And when her eyes begin to droop, Bilbo takes her by the arm and escorts her back to her rooms. The Hobbit departs with a smile and Sigrid is too tired to do anything but sink back into her bed.

Mercifully, she dreams of nothing at all.

~*~

In the morning, hours - or perhaps even minutes - after she fell asleep, she is woken by Dara and a team of Dwarves bursting into her chambers. They descend on her like a storm, brandishing brushes and fabrics and perfumed oils.

Still half-asleep and feeling the effects of her poor night’s sleep, Sigrid doesn’t protest when she is dragged from bed and into a bath. Dara shoos the other Dwarves out of the room, giving Sigrid some semblance of privacy as she bathes.

She struggles to keep her eyes open as Dara helps wash her hair. 

Dara keeps her comments to herself for a change, seeming to take pity on her.

She doesn’t let herself think about the day to come. She leans her head back in the water and closes her eyes. She listens to the _thump thump thump_ of her heartbeat under the surface of the water, it reminds her of lazy summers spent in the lake.

Happier times.

As she thinks of those sunlit summer days, Dara silently prepares her for what is to come. Her hair is lathered in something that makes it soft and manageable. Her skin is scrubbed until its pink. She’s covered in perfumed oils that make her nose wrinkle. The braid in her hair, which she has not touched since Fíli put it there, is undone.

Dara’s smile is small, sympathetic, when she steps back, her task completed. Sigrid wishes she could sink down into the water forever, either way – it feels as though she’s drowning.

She pushes herself up and out of the bath with a heavy sigh. She wraps a towel around herself and shrugs on a thick dressing gown while Dara drains the bathwater. The air in the bathroom is heavy with mist, fogging up the polished silver mirror. _Good,_ she thinks. She doesn’t think she could bear the sight of her own reflection.

The moment she steps out of the bathroom the other Dwarves descend on her. They push her down onto a cushioned stool in front of the vanity table, fussing over her in a panic, with Dara governing them like a seasoned battle commander. 

Sigrid looks up and is forced to face herself. Her eyes are red from her sleepless night, shadowed by almost bruise-like dark circles.

“You’re going to make such a lovely bride. But what a shame it is that you don’t have a beard.” One of the Dwarves says, pink-cheeked, with only a hint of a beard growing along her jawline. Sigrid cannot remember her name. She’s one of the better ones though, kinder than the rest. The other Dwarves speak among themselves in their own language and simply scowl or tut at her as a means of communication.

“His Royal Highness is so strong, so handsome,” the Dwarf continues, sighing dreamily. “You’re very lucky. Any Dwarf would kill to snatch ‘im up.”

Sigrid closes her eyes to stop herself from crying. 

“Let’s begin with her hair.” Dara barks, putting an end to that conversation. The other Dwarves quickly fall in line, gathering around her, armed with brushes and wire combs and strips of ribbon.

Her hair had been another challenge for the Dwarves, as Dwarven hair is thicker and coarser than her own, making it easier for them to braid and style so elaborately. Unlike her wedding dress, concessions had to be made for her hair, which flopped pathetically no matter how much they backcombed it. 

Her hair is parted in the middle and pulled back from her face to meet at the back of her head in a series of complicated braids. The rest of her hair braided while it is still damp in order to create soft natural curls and then left loose. She hasn’t had it cut in months so her hair falls to the small of her back, longer than she has ever allowed it to grow in the past.

Perhaps that was for the best. Dwarves, with their strange obsession with hair, would probably see the act of her cutting her hair as a sign of madness.

It is only as she tilts her head and inspects the intricacy of the braids that she realises what a task it will be for Fíli to undo.

When the time comes for Fíli to put a new plait and bead in her hair, she wonders, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, just how long he will have to spend fiddling with all the various pins and ribbon. She hadn’t understood what Dara had meant when she told her it will be the most intimate part of the ceremony. 

She clasps her hands together on her lap and does her best not to think about it.

It takes the Dwarves the better part of two hours to get her ready. By the time they are happy with her hair and every inch of her has been covered in a light layer of perfumed oil, it is time for her to be dressed.

Sigrid never used to understand why the great ladies in Laketown required servants to dress them. But if their clothes were any bit as complicated as her wedding dress, she thinks she’s beginning to understand why.

It had taken a small army of dressmakers to create her wedding gown and everything else that comes with it. It seems strange, that so much time and cost has been spent on one day – one entirely lavish, pointless day – but this day is not for her or for Fíli, she has come to accept that. 

She is made to shed her dressing gown and towel before her arms are lifted for her, like a child. A loose cotton chemise is quickly slipped over her head, falling just above her knees. Next came soft white stockings, which are fastened just below her knees by deep blue ribbons that match the thick sapphire and pearl necklace King Thorin had supposedly gifted her to wear. She isn’t sure what to think about that, or what it might mean.

Sigrid almost groans when she catches sight of the dreaded corset. Dara catches her expression in the mirror and clicks her tongue.

“None of that.” Dara chides, but takes the corset away from the other Dwarves. Dara is the one who helps her into it and doesn’t tie the strings quite as harshly or as tight as they had done during her fittings at the dressmaker.

A peculiar, structured petticoat that makes her hips seem much wider than they are comes next. She isn’t sure how she is expected to sit down, let alone walk without tipping over. Bustles and unpractical, long sweeping trains had been all the fashion for a time in Laketown, so Dwarves are not the only ones with an odd taste in clothes.

Sigrid catches sight of her reflection and huffs. She’d choose her dowdy frocks and mudcaked boots over this any day.

Her arms are lifted again and she’s helped into the rest of her dress.

As much as the sight of it fills her with dread, Sigrid cannot deny that the wedding gown created for her is remarkable. Her fingers ache in sympathy as she admires the fine, neat stitching and detailed embroidery.

The Dwarves have to stand on little stools to put on her jewellery. On any other day, the sight might have amused her.

The jewels King Thorin has given her for the ceremony are undeniably beautiful, worth more than she could imagine, but they’re tainted all the same.

She faces her reflection and scarcely recognises herself. In her Dwarven style of dress and hair, with heavy, sparkling jewels hanging from her ears and her neck like weighted chains, she feels as though she’s becoming just one more item to the hoard.

This marriage is not a union born from love or even friendship. For her people, it is to save them from ruin. For the Dwarves - by marrying her, they secure Dale’s loyalty and ensure that the fragile peace Bilbo’s gold and the battle brought about endures. They will also almost certainly be guaranteed children and a wife who will never live long enough to become their Queen.

“Oh,” the pink-cheeked Dwarf gasps from beside her. “You _do_ look lovely.”

The utter astonishment in her tone confuses the compliment somewhat.

“Aye.” One of the other Dwarrowdams says, in a gruff, deep voice. “For a child of Dale, you’ll do.”

Sigrid brushes her hands down the front of her dress, her fingers catching on the little jewels sewn into the stomacher. She draws in a breath as deep as she is able and closes her eyes. She focuses herself to think about the terrible months following the ruin of Laketown and the battle, to remember why she is doing this.

Her father is already waiting for her when she leaves her rooms, a steady arm to lean on. 

He is dressed in a formal cloak with a thin silver circlet sat just above his furrowed brow. She wonders who succeeded in bullying him into wearing it – Dara or her sister.

“It’s not too late. You can still change your mind.” Her father whispers in her ear. 

She meets his weary gaze and shakes her head. It’s much too late now. 

Dwarves stare at them as they pass, making remarks in a language she cannot understand. Dara has always insisted that the Dwarves of Erebor are in favour of the match, that they support the union between their two peoples. And yet… Sigrid sees no welcome in their eyes, only distrust. She is an outsider, even as she leaves the mountain to marry their Prince.

There is a carriage at the gates, waiting to take them the short distance to Dale. 

The carriage jostles as the wheels bounce over stones and she looks at her father for courage. _If Da can kill a dragon and face an army of Orcs, I can do this one little thing._

The bells are ringing; she hears them as the carriage draws closer to the city. The last time she had heard the sound of bells ringing, her home was burning down around her.

Sigrid’s stomach lurches and she shoves the memory to the back of her mind before she’s sick. _Can’t think about that,_ she tells herself, _not that, not that, not today._ She curls one arm around her stomach and leans forward in her seat. Her father doesn’t seem to notice her distress; Bard’s eyes are closed, his head tipped back against his seat.

A hand touches her knee and Sigrid’s gaze lifts to meet Dara’s. The Dwarf watches her closely from the seat opposite her, her expression gentle, sympathetic.

“You’ll do well,” Dara says, squeezing Sigrid’s knee through the great plumes of fabric.

This is a day of celebration; she makes herself remember. So many of her people have been looking forward to this union for a long time. She can’t reproach them for their excitement – it isn’t often the people of Dale have a reason to be joyful. 

There will be those who disagree. She knows that within Dale there are those who cling to their distrust and hatred of the Dwarves. There are those who would rather raise arms against them than forge a lasting peace. And there are many within her struggling city that blame the Dwarves for what has become of them. They blame the Dwarves for bringing dragonfire and war upon them - a sentiment Sigrid herself struggled with in the hopeless days after the desolation of Laketown.

The carriage rolls up the cracked, cobblestone streets, coming to a halt outside the Great Hall. 

As her father helps her out of the carriage, she is taken aback by what she sees. 

Ribbons in a riot of colours have been tied around the blackened branches of dead trees. Someone has even placed a bundle of wildflowers flowers in the hands of the fractured statue atop the fountain in the centre of the courtyard.

White flower petals are strewn across the ground, and as she steps out of the carriage, more seem to fall from the heavens. She looks up and sees children with armfuls of flowers tossing them from the balconies above. The sight makes her smile for what could be the first time in days.

The courtyard is filled with people, all cheering and smiling and looking happier than she has seen them in a long time. 

To her surprise, she spots several members of the King’s Company – Bilbo, Bofur and Óin – among the crowd. Bilbo smiles, touching her arm as she passes, with a crown of autumnal flowers sat atop his honey brown curls.

The heavy train of her dress brushes across the ground, catching the early autumn leaves. People are touching her, patting her shoulders as she passes. 

The sight of Tilda in a pretty lavender dress with flowers in her hair makes her smile for a moment. Her little sister smiles at her from where she is standing beside Fíli, her eyes bright with happiness. Bain looks less happy, but he still manages to give her a weak smile as she passes. 

“I’m so proud of you, Sigrid,” Bard whispers into her ear. “So proud.”

The doors to the Great Hall groan as they open and her father pauses, pressing a kiss to her temple before he lets her go. 

She almost doesn’t recognise the Great Hall. 

She remembers this as a place of nightmares. It is where they hid during the fighting and where they took shelter after the battle was won, wounded and mourning and huddled together to keep out the cold. She has had so many nightmares about this place, terrible dreams where her father arrived too late, and Orcs broke through the doors. 

But she isn’t frightened of this place anymore. 

Lit by dozens of candles, with flowers tucked into the cracks in the walls and coloured ribbons wrapped around the backs of the wooden benches, it has a quiet sort of beauty that she appreciates, with none of the grandeur that Dwarves prefer. 

Sigrid pauses, just for a fraction of a second, when she sees Fíli.

Her husband-to-be is waiting for her by the aisle, with his brother by his side. 

Fíli looks handsome, dressed in a dark blue tunic and gleaming silver armour, with a long fur coat hanging from his broad shoulders. His golden hair is neater than she has ever seen it, combed back from his face and gathered in a bun at the nape of his neck.

The sight of a sword hanging at his hip almost makes her smile. Dwarves never seem to go anywhere without being armed to the teeth. 

When she meets his gaze, at last, he smiles. 

“You look beautiful,” The Dwarf says and she blushes.

“Thank you.” She murmurs, her cheeks uncomfortably warm. “You – you look very handsome.”

Fíli smiles. “Shall we?”

Fíli holds out his arm and she hesitates only for a moment before she takes it, her arm sliding through his. 

It could be worse, she thinks for what has to be the hundredth time. 

There is something steady about him, something in the way that he looks at her that makes her feel less afraid. 

They take their place before the dais, with friends and family streaming into the hall, taking their seats.

Her father, Tilda and Bain sit in the front row alongside Kíli, Bofur, Bilbo, Dara, and Óin on the other side of the aisle.

Percy, her father’s right hand man, presides over the ceremony. In another life, it might have been the Master of Lake-town officiating her wedding. 

Percy directs them to stand side by side with their backs to their audience, as tradition dictates. He smiles at her, his expression one of sympathy, before he begins. He does not look at Fíli.

Her hands tremble, and she barely hears the words which Percy reads aloud. 

Fíli’s gaze flickers from her face to her hands. Ever so slowly, his left hand shifts, his little finger brushing against hers. The touch is so careful, barely there, as though he were trying not to spook her.

In spite of everything, Sigrid finds herself seeking out that touch. Their fingers meet again, closing the distance between their two bodies.

Her breath catches in her throat when Fíli takes her hand at last. His hand is warm and his fingers slide through hers, fitting perfectly, like matching puzzle pieces. And just for a moment, she breathes a little easier, feeling an all too brief sense of peace. But then someone clears their throat, and she blinks, thrown from her reverie. 

“…May you be healthy in all your days, may you be blessed with long life, and may you grow old with goodness and peace and love in your hearts.” Percy recites, his voice echoing around the silent hall. 

It’s all a bit of a blur. So many words to be repeated and recited, so many vows to be promised. It feels almost as if someone else is stood in her place, speaking the words for her.

Up until Percy reaches out and grasps her shoulder with a kind smile. 

“Who gives this woman?” 

Behind them, she hears her father’s chair creak as he stands. 

“I do.” 

Percy’s gaze shifts to Fíli, his smile dimming somewhat.

“And who gives this man – _ahem_ – Dwarf?” 

For a moment, no one speaks. The silence makes Sigrid’s shoulder tense, expecting the worse. Fíli seems to sense her unease and gives her hand a small squeeze.

“Kíli,” he hisses.

“Oh, right. That’s me.” Kíli laughs, lumbering to his feet. “I do.”

Percy clears his throat, tempering the look of irritation that flits across his features.

“Now – _ahem –_ Lady Sigrid, if you would please repeat after me: I take you, Fíli, son of Dís, as my husband from this day, until the end of my days.”

Sigrid repeats the words softly as she accepts a simple gold ring from Kíli. She takes Fíli’s left hand and avoids his gaze as she slides the ring onto his finger. Her hands are shaking, Fíli must see that. She prays that no one else notices. 

“I vow to love and to honour you through all that may come. Through all our life together, as husband and wife.”

“Well done, girl.” Percy murmurs and pats her shoulder before he turns to Fíli. “Prince Fíli of Erebor, if you would repeat after me…”

“I take you, Sigrid, daughter of Bard, as my wife from this day, until the end of my days,” Fíli vows, his words clear and never wavering.Her father steps forward, offering a gold ring to match hers. She shivers as Fíli takes her hand in his and slides the ring onto her finger. His eyes, soft in the candlelight, never leave hers.

“I vow to love and to honour you through all that may come. Through all our life together, as husband and wife.”

Percy recites the rest of the ceremonial words, something about solemn vows made before friends, family, and Eru Ilúvatar, but she scarcely hears it. She cannot seem to tear her gaze off of the matching rings on her and Fíli’s fingers. 

_This is real, this is actually happening,_ she despairs.

“You may kiss your bride.”

Sigrid tenses at the feeling of Fíli’s hand on her cheek. She watches, feet frozen in place, as he leans up to close the distance between them.

The kiss is brief, a chaste brush of lips that is over before it even began.

Fíli’s thumb sweeps along the line of her cheekbone before he draws away.

“One down, one to go.” He mutters wryly, startling a laugh out of her. Her new husband – _her husband –_ touches his hand to the small of her back and guides her down the aisle.

Together, they walk out of the Great Hall and are greeted by rapturous applause.

Her cheeks burn, and she shrinks unconsciously into Fíli’s side, overwhelmed by being the centre of so much attention. She laughs to herself, a touch hysterically, as she imagines the wedding she might have had in Laketown. It could not have been more different to this.

She looks back before she climbs into the carriage, seeking out Bain and Tilda’s faces in the crowd.

Her little brother and sister are standing with Bilbo, smiling, and looking happy. Her only wish is that she can bring them with her, that she doesn’t have to go through the rest of this without them.

For so long, they only had each other. But things are different now. Things are better…

Sigrid meets her father’s gaze in the crowd. Bard smiles wearily, mouthing - _I love you._

Fíli helps her into the carriage and takes a seat opposite her, his carefully composed expression slipping away when they are alone.

Children run alongside the carriage as it jostles along the cobblestone street, cheering and waving.

“Did that really just happen?” The Dwarf exclaims, looking stunned. “That whole thing felt like a fever dream.”

“I could pinch you, if you like.” Sigrid finds herself offering, her tone dry, but still a little shaky.

“Hah. I don’t think that would be very _loving_ or _honouring_ of you.” He quips back, though his expression remains dumbfounded.

Fíli never asked to marry her, she realises. He’s merely doing his duty, the same as her.

She feels some of the tension leave her shoulders, breathing a little easier, knowing that she isn’t in this alone. Everything she feels, he must feel too. And when he meets her gaze, she smiles faintly.

“Do Dwarves do _anything_ without armour on?” She asks in a mock-serious tone, looking pointedly at his metal breastplate.

Fíli laughs, and for a moment, she swears she catches him blushing.

“Some things.” He answers quietly, not quite meeting her eye. There’s a notably pink tinge to his cheeks that makes her smile.

When she snorts, he looks up in surprise and meets her gaze. She presses the back of her hand to her lips, trying in vain to hold back her laughter. That same soft, warm look she’d seen in his eyes during the ceremony is there; it lingers for a moment before turning into amusement. His composure breaks and the pair dissolve into laughter.

The moment is sadly short-lived, as – far sooner than she’d have liked - the carriage rolls to a stop outside the gates of Erebor.

The carriage door is thrown open and they are quickly ushered out.

They aren’t welcomed by a crowd of smiling faces. They are escorted into the dark of the mountain kingdom by a band of Dwarves brandishing axes. The rest of the mountain seems empty, clear of any going about their business.

Their heavily armed escort marches them to the throne room, a room she has never been permitted to enter before.

They are left at a long walkway that looks over the halls below, surrounded by great statues of the Kings of Old. The light is strange, so deep within the mountain. It seems to glow an almost unnatural blue, the light cast off by a strange stone set into the King’s throne.

Fíli offers her his arm and she takes it, holding onto him as they walk across the pillared bridge to the King. Every step echoes. Even the clinking of her jewels seems to echo throughout the colossal room.

The King cuts an intimidating figure, sat upon his throne with Lord Dáin Ironfoot on one side of him, and Balin and Dwalin on the other. His smile is brief and he inclines his head in greeting to them both. They kneel before him on the stone floor, facing each other, and he begins his blessing.

She does as she was instructed - she pretends to look like she’s listening, even though she doesn’t know what is being said. No one makes any effort to translate for her.

As the King’s blessing drags on, speaking in that strange, guttural language, her attention is stolen by the jewel that is fixed above his throne.

The Arkenstone.

She’d seen it once before. It had been peeking out of the pocket of her father’s coat, letting her catch a brief glimpse of it before he rode to speak with the King. Bilbo had risked his King’s wrath by stealing it and smuggling it to Dale in the hope of stopping a war.

The Arkenstone is even more remarkable up close, unlike anything she’d ever seen before. It pulses with unnatural light, swirling with colour, and sparkling like a star stolen from the night sky. It’s undoubtedly beautiful, but not worth fighting a war over.

When Balin clears his throat, she blinks in surprise. She glances at Fíli and releases her hold on his arm, realising what they were waiting for her to do.

Her fingers tremble under the King’s gaze as she turns to face him. She chews on her lip nervously as she reaches for the leather strip tying his hair back.

_On this day, the Prince will not wear any braids or beads. You come together, not as the Prince and his Lady, but two souls joining as one,_ Dara had told her.

It is the first time she has seen him – or any other Dwarf for that matter – with loose hair, free of braids and jewellery. She carefully drags her fingers through his hair, working out any knots, and steadfastly avoids his gaze.

She gathers a section of hair near his left ear and begins to weave the golden strands into the braid Dara had taught her.

Balin steps forward when the braid is complete, opening a small ornate box. Cushioned inside are two golden clasps, etched with little lines and symbols. _Runes_ , she recalls Dara calling them.

She takes one of the golden clasps and attaches it to the end of his hair. The finished braid hangs neatly by the side of his face, the golden clasp sitting level with his chest.

When she draws her hands away, she accidentally catches his gaze. Her Dwarf husband smiles faintly, some unknown emotion flickering in the depths of his blue eyes. He looks at her for just a moment, hesitating, before he lifts his hands to her hair.

Sigrid keeps her head bowed, and her eyes downcast, unwilling to meet his gaze as he leans in close.

The feeling of his fingers carefully weaving through her hair, drawing out the pins one by one, makes her breath catch. It is just as intimate as she feared. She can feel his every breath, warm against her cheek. She’s painfully aware of the small crowd watching them, she barely resists the urge to squirm under the weight of their stares.

She startles when Fíli suddenly tips her chin up, inadvertently forcing her to look at him.

“Sorry,” he whispers, his lips twitching in a faint, apologetic smile. “I just need to –”

He tilts her head, making it easier for him to access a section of braids on the side of her head. The metal plate of his armour presses against her chest as he leans in even closer. But his hands are steady and sure, carefully unraveling every braid with practiced ease. It only takes a handful of minutes to undo what took Dara and her team almost an hour to complete.

When at last her hair is loose, and falling around her shoulders in rumpled curls, Fíli leans back. His fingers flex and unflex, seemingly unconsciously, before he takes the remaining gold clasp from Balin.

He doesn’t quite meet her eye, choosing to examine the golden clasp for a moment before tucking it into his pocket. She thinks she hears Balin mutter something under his breath, something disapproving from the sounds of it. Fíli doesn’t pay him any attention.

“Where – where would you-?” Fíli grimaces as he stumbles awkwardly over his words. He gestures from himself to her hair, and she blinks, understanding.

She touches her hair, trying to imagine the best place for a braid she is supposed to wear for the rest of her life. She understands that she’ll be able to take it to brush and wash her hair, but she will be expected to have her hair braided in the exact same way and place whenever she is seen in public. So, it matters, where Fíli decides to put it.

She chooses a small section of hair at the front of her head, near her ear. The braid won’t fall in her face that way, but also isn’t in an inconvenient spot for her to plait on her own.

Fíli swallows, his expression difficult to read, before he nods.

His fingers brush against the shell of her ear as he makes quick work of the marriage braid, making her shiver.

When at long last he fixes the golden clasp onto the end of her braid, Dáin lets out a hearty cheer.

The King holds out his hands, gesturing for them to stand. She rises to her feet unsteadily, her knees aching after kneeling so long on the cold, stone floor.

King Thorin says something she cannot understand, the strange sounding words echoing throughout the vast chamber. But Fíli understands, he takes her by the hand and the King raises from his throne. He descends the steps and places his hands on both of their shoulders. Sigrid barely resists the urge to shift under the weight of his hand.

Fíli leans in, and for a brief moment, she thinks he is going to kiss her again. Instead, he closes his eyes and leans his forehead against hers, whispering something in his language under his breath. The King echoes his whispered words in a booming voice, and that seems to be the end of the ceremony.

“Enough with the formalities, cousin!” Dáin shouts, pounding his chest with his fist. “Now, we feast!”

Dara has spent weeks preparing her for the feast, a great celebration that stretches on long into the night. Hundreds of Dwarves from throughout the land fill Erebor’s great banquet hall. The sounds of booming voices rise high above the melodies of the musicians, who are tucked away in the corner of the hall on a raised platform.

A great cheer rises up when she and Fíli walk through the doors, followed closely by Lord Dáin and the King.

The Dwarves’ banquet hall puts the humble hall in Dale to shame. Sparkling crystal chandeliers hang from the ceilings and little lights that look like fireflies from afar are fixed onto stone walls threaded with veins of silver and gold. There are hundreds of long tables throughout the hall, surrounding an empty – though perhaps not for long – dancefloor.

She can see Bilbo’s hand in all the flowers strewn around the hall and in the new tapestries that are hung up behind the King’s chair, depicting the dragon’s defeat and the King’s return to the Lonely Mountain.

“The first dance is starting,” Fíli tells her as the musicians call for quiet. The room falls silent as he holds out his hand. “Shall we?”

_Please no,_ she despairs. Not even Dara’s rigorous lessons have prepared her for dancing in front of so many people.

Very much against her will, Sigrid slips her hand into Fíli’s. She allows him to lead her to the heart of the hall, where every eye in the room seems to suddenly be trained.

As the music begins and one of Fíli’s hands settles on her waist, she hears Dara’s voice in her head. _One, two, three. Spin. One, two, three._

Her nerves make her clumsy. She forgets the steps Dara had taught her and stumbles over her own feet more than once, but she is nothing compared to Fíli.

The Dwarf spins her when everyone else on the dancefloor is turning, and they turn when all the others spin. He stumbles over her skirts, steps on her toes, and the golden marriage clasp manages to hit him in the eye. More than once, she thinks she hears him swearing under his breath.

“Forgive me,” he says when he pulls at her hand too hard and she stumbles against him.

They are close. _Very_ close.

His hand is big and warm at her waist, and her hands are braced against his broad chest from where she had caught hersel. The hard metal of his armour is cold under her fingertips. Her gaze flits to his lips, watching as the corners of his mouth tug down unhappily.

The other dancers are circling around them, spinning perfectly in time, laughing and smirking. She feels a flash of anger, not for her sake, but Fíli’s. He doesn’t deserve to be laughed at and ridiculed. Least of all at his own wedding.

“It’s alright,” she breathes. And in spite of everything, she means it. “Just follow my lead.”

She takes his hand in hers again.

“One, two, three…” She counts under her breath. “One, two, three. Spin.”

The Dwarf stares up at her for a moment, eyebrows raised slightly in surprise. When she squeezes his hand, he blinks, understanding dawn on his face. He nods once, his jaw set in determination.

As they resume the dance, he counts along in time to the music with her. They move through the rest of the dance somewhat clumsily, but without injury, and when it ends, they both sigh in relief.

“Would you like to sit down? The feast should be starting soon.” He tells her and she nods emphatically, grateful for the escape.

He leads her across the hall, never releasing his hold on her hand. Yet – to her surprise – she finds that she doesn’t mind so much. It’s the watchful eyes, following their every move, which makes her uncomfortable.

The King sits at the head of their table on a long dais, with Dáin to his left and Fíli to his right. The rest of the company are seated with them, along with a few unfamiliar faces.

She takes her seat beside the Dwarf Prince and smiles when Bilbo slides into the empty place beside her. The little Hobbit is out of breath, his brow damp with sweat from exerting himself on the dancefloor.

Dwarven feasts are a thing to be feared, she soon learns. Seventeen courses, almost entirely made up of meat, with not a leafy vegetable in sight, served with great goblets filled with mead and ale. It is more food than her family would have seen in a year back home in Lake-town.

After having one sip of ale and knowing, vehemently, that it is not for her, Bilbo passes her a glass of wine with a knowing look.

She sips at the same glass of wine throughout the feast, watching the Dwarves attempt to drink Bilbo under the table. But the Hobbit is surprisingly resilient for someone so small, and is the only one left able to form coherent sentences when the night is done.

She watches the dancing for the majority of the evening once the feast is over. Fíli is engaged in conversation with his Uncle and brother and does not attempt to talk to her, outside of asking her to pass him some water and if she enjoyed her food.

Several Dwarves have taken to clambering drunkenly onto their tables and bursting into song, dedicated to her and Fíli. Bofur, unfortunately, is one of them. The Dwarf whips out a flute of some kind, from goodness knows where, and almost impales himself on it when Dwalin shoves him off of the table.

“’Ere’s to the ‘appy – _hic_ – couple,” Bofur groans from the ground. He rolls onto his back and holds up his flute, cracked perfectly into two pieces.

“Aye!” One of the King’s Company snickers – Nori, she thinks his name might be. “May the groom play the bride just as well as he does a fiddle.”

Bofur tosses one half of his broken flute at Nori’s head.

“Here’s a couple more inches for you,” Nori says and vaults the flute at Fíli. “You’ll need it.”

Nori winks at her and Sigrid burns her face in her hands, her cheeks burning.

For all her worrying, she’d forgotten the defining climax of a wedding –

The wedding night.

As if senses her thoughts, Fíli lifts his head and meets her gaze.

“The hour is late.” He leans in close to tell her, his breath warm against her neck. She fights the urge to recoil. She glances at the others and is inclined to agree with him. The King disappeared to his chambers hours ago, and most of the Dwarves who aren’t making increasingly vulgar jokes are passed out with their heads on the table. “Would you like me to escort you back to your chambers?”

She is tempted to refuse, but she does not know the way. She has no choice but to accept.

When she stands, she feels Fíli’s hand at the small of her back, lingering there for just a moment. He guides her through the hall wordlessly and clasps his hands behind his back. No one seems to notice them leave.

She breathes a little easier, now that they are alone. The long hallways are quiet at this time of night, not another soul in sight. Neither of them speak as they walk, the only sound she can hear is the echoing of their footsteps.

When they reach the doors to her new chambers, there is a small, awkward pause before she reaches for the door handle.

“I suppose – we ought to -” She grimaces, hand flailing awkwardly towards the door.

She isn’t sure how well she is disguising her nerves – if she is at all – but something about her words or her expression makes her Dwarf husband sigh. Fíli’s reaches out and closes his hand around hers, drawing her away from the door.

“You don’t have to worry.” He says very quietly, not quite meeting her eye. “That – _this_ isn’t expected.”

She doesn’t ask him to elaborate on what he means.

Tension she didn’t know she was carrying bleeds out of her shoulders, and she sighs in relief.

“So…” She begins, hopeful. “Goodnight then?”

Fíli nods, one corner of his lips curving up in a smile. “Goodnight, Sigrid.”

It is only as he turns to go that Sigrid realises she will be going to bed alone. Meaning Dara, or anyone else, will not be there to help her out of her dress.

“Wait!” The word bursts out of her and she screws her face up in mortification when Fíli turns back around. “I don’t -”

She cannot believe she is asking this. She wants the ground to open up and swallow her whole.

“I don’t know how to get out of my dress.” She forces the words out over the knot in her throat.

Fíli makes a small sound of understanding. Very much against her will, she peers through her lashes at him. She watches as he rubs the back of his neck, huffing a laugh, before he crosses the distance between them.

This time he is the one who gestures awkwardly at the door.

She ducks her head to hide her flaming cheeks and pushes the door to her new rooms open. Bilbo’s wedding present, a little voice in the back of her head reminds her. She steps inside the cosy receiving room she had spent the early hours of the morning in and is surprised that the Hobbit sized furniture has already been moved out. The small armchairs in front of the fire have been traded for one’s more suited to her size and look just as plush. She wants to sink into them and drink the Hobbit’s calming chamomile tea.

There’s a door open, tucked between two bookshelves. She hadn’t noticed it the night before. It doesn’t lead to the kitchen or the bedroom, making her curious as to where it goes.

She isn’t given long to consider the open door before Fíli clears his throat, reminding her of his presence.

“Right.” She says, releasing a shaky laugh.

She isn’t sure her nerves would survive if they were to go about this in the bedroom, so she holds up her hand and wordlessly tells him to wait. She ducks into her bedroom and takes a moment just to _breathe._

It is with some difficulty that she’s able to shed the outer layer of her dress. She gathers the skirts and tugs it up, over her head. The jewels on the bodice catch in her hair, making her wince. She is out of breath, and her scalp is smarting, when she finally tears the outer layer of her dress off.

She clutches it to her chest to preserve some semblance of modesty before she reluctantly returns to the living room, where Fíli is stood waiting.

“It’s – look.” She turns, showing Fíli the back of her dress.

There’s a moment of silence, the air between them tense, before Fíli moves. She stiffens when he gently shifts her hair over one shoulder, so he can better see what he’s dealing with.

“Is there a clasp or some kind of release to this?” He asks, prodding the stiff structured petticoat.

“I don’t know.”

“Alright.” He says, seeming to shake off his uncertainty. “I think I know what to do.”

She doesn’t know what it says about her that she doesn’t immediately jump out of her skin when she glances over her shoulder and sees Fíli pulling a dagger out of his boot. She thinks maybe she’s been around Dwarves for too long. Dara will lean an axe the size of her head against the table while she eats her breakfast, and she’s learned not to question it.

Fíli meets her gaze and gives his dagger a little wiggle.

“Do you mind?”

In spite of everything, Sigrid laughs breathlessly.

“Go right ahead.” She says.

Dara won’t be happy, she thinks as her Dwarf husband literally cuts her out of her dress. The petticoat goes first, falling to the ground in a heap. The corset follows, his dagger carefully cutting each individual string until the garment loosens and she can breathe properly again.

“Thank you.” She murmurs as she steps over the pile of fabric.

“Happy to help,” Fíli says with amusement dancing in his deep blue eyes.

She cannot help but laugh again. The situation is truly ridiculous, and not what she had been expecting from this evening at all. Sigrid’s smile dims at the thought of what could have been.

“Thank you.” She says again, but for something else entirely.

With a gentleness she never would have expected from a Dwarf, Fíli takes her hand in his own and lifts it to his lips.

“ _Zabadinhuh_ ,” he sighs. She frowns at the unfamiliar word.

“What does it mean?” She asks, even though she is certain he’ll refuse to tell her.

“It means -” He begins to say, then stops and laughs to himself. “Why don’t I teach you? I’m no scholar like Ori, but I know enough.”

She blinks in surprise.

“You would do that? But - I thought it was supposed to be a secret?”

“It is, but you’re my wife now. I don’t like the thought of keeping secrets from you.”

_Wife,_ she thinks, her new reality truly sinking in, _I am someone’s wife now._

She doesn’t know what to say, and they stand in silence for a moment. When her gaze flickers between him and the door nervously, he sighs. He lifts her hand to his lips once more, pressing a lingering kiss to her knuckles.

“Goodnight, my lady.” He says. And then he’s gone, walking through the open door, rather than the one that leads into the corridor.

Adjoined rooms. Of course. They are husband and wife, after all.

She lays the outer layer of her dress over the back of an armchair and retreats into her bedroom. She sheds the rest of her garments and sinks into the large bed in just her shift.

As she drags the covers up to her chin, the flickering candlelight catches in her wedding ring. She stares at the simple gold band for a moment, the sight of it strange and unfamiliar. A small part of her wonders if this gold is cursed too.

Sigrid pulls the ring off and tosses it onto her bedside table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zabadinhuh - My Lady


End file.
